


Amenti

by mrs_fish



Category: Mummy: The Resurrection, The X-Files
Genre: Crossover, Language, M/M, Violence, m/m - Freeform, religious and
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 10:35:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15192926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_fish/pseuds/mrs_fish
Summary: Alex is given a second chance at life.





	1. Introduction / Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes 1:** In my universe, Krycek has two arms.
> 
> **Notes 2:** Although I started this story ages ago, it was revised and finished in time to be posted specifically for the Nick Lea birthday challenge.
> 
> **Notes 3:** I would like to formally thank Ursula -- for several reasons. Once, she's a great beta, and always willing to help out. Two, she goes out of her way to supply people with 'rewards', at her own expense, for story challenges. Not that she needs to. Three, well... she's just a wonderful asset to fandom. So, Urs, thank you, thank you, thank you!!
> 
> **Story Notes:** Forget everything you ever knew about mummies. The mummies in this story are neither shambling hunks wrapped in bandages, nor decrepit zombie-like creatures who need to suck out your life force to become whole.
> 
> Mummies are a combination of old and new souls. A great storm tore through the underworld, either destroying completely, or shredding the ancient souls who resided there. Only the strongest were able to survive. However, they were fragmented.
> 
> These souls, who were loyal to Osiris, were given a gift by the god. They would find a human at the brink of death and offer them the chance to live again. (The human would be chosen because they possess some strength or insight that never reached its full potential in life.) If the human accepts, the old soul merges with the new and a new being is created. After the Spell of Life is performed, the being becomes a mummy, a creature of incredible power able to draw on memories of both lifetimes as well as time in the underworld learning from other spirits.
> 
> After their rebirth, the mummies are cared for by loyal cultists and others of their kind. They're taught spells and given information necessary for their continued survival. But should they fall in battle against the forces of darkness, they're able to rise again -- if they're judged worthy -- because they're immortal.
> 
> With that said, I hope you enjoy the following.

**Title:** Amenti  
**Author:** Mrs. Fish  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Pairings:** D/K  
**Warnings:** Crossover, language, m/m, violence, religious and supernatural themes.  
**Spoilers:** Brief ones for the Season 8 episodes _The Gift_ and _Existence_.  
**Status:** Completed  
**Date:** 6/19/02  
**Archive:** No. Do not forward to any other lists or archive without permission.  
**Category:** Nick Lea Birthday Challenge from the AlexK-H-C-orD list.  
**Series/Sequel:** No  
**Bookcover:** <https://www.squidge.org/~mrs_fish/xfiles/bookcovers/amenti.jpg>

**Summary:** Alex is given a second chance at life. 

**Disclaimer:** The X-Files, the series, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of Ten Thirteen Productions, Fox, Chris Carter and others. Mummy: the Resurrection, the game, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of White Wolf Game Studio and others. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes. 

* * *

**Amenti:** _The former stronghold of the Egyptian dead, destroyed by the Dja-akh ("Ghost storm.") Also called the Dark Kingdom of Sand. The collective name of the mummies created by spirits from that place._

* * *

**Introduction**  
**Falls Church, Virginia**

I'm gettin to be a regular at this liquor store since my suspension. 'Course I only have myself to blame for that. It started when I learned my lover, Alex Krycek, had been murdered in cold blood by my boss, Walter Skinner. Skinner told me in great detail how he'd done it. How he'd rid the world of traitorous scum. I sat there, stomach churning with anger, and wanted nothing more than to blow Skinner away the same way he'd killed Alex. Instead I nodded understanding, went home, got drunk and cried my eyes out. 

Things just went downhill from there. The emptiness I felt carried over into my work. I walked around in a daze most of the time -- oblivious to my surroundings -- compounded by my nightly bouts with alcohol. My superiors had no choice but to reprimand me, then place me on medical suspension. Which is why I'm at the liquor store at three o'clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday. 

I'm headin toward the counter when two punks wearin trench coats come in. Everything about them screams trouble, especially when one pulls a sawed-off shotgun out from under his coat. 

I'm moving before I even realize it. 

I scream "Federal agent!" and reach for my weapon when it hits me with cold clarity -- I'm not officially a federal agent at the moment -- and I'm unarmed. 

* * *

The shotgun blast catches me square in the chest, throwing me back into a display. I'm dimly aware of bottles crashing around me through a haze of pain. I want to laugh at the irony of the situation, but I can't get my mouth to move. The last time I was shot like this I was eaten and regurgitated by a shamanic soul-eater and brought back to life. Don't think that's gonna happen this time though. 

What the hell? 

I hear a voice whisperin to me. At first I think it's the clerk, but he doesn't have an accent. And this person definitely comes from somewhere in the Middle East. 

Do I want a chance to live again? What the hell kinda question is that? 

Of course I do! 

Oh, fuck! I'm hit with a pain more intense than anything I've ever felt before -- even counting the shotgun blast that hit me a few moments ago. Then my head is filled with vague images of ancient Egypt and I'm engulfed in pleasant warmth. A kind of consciousness returns to me, because I'm aware of gettin up and headin for the door. 

The clerk runs up to me and grabs my arm. "Agent Doggett, I don't think it's a good idea for you to..." 

My look effectively silences him, and I continue out the door to my car. I quickly start it, put it in gear, and head for home. 

* * *

**Prologue**

I didn't dream it -- this post-mortem mirage, this strange waking nightmare of dying and going to a hell of sand. 

Until moments ago, I was a corpse. Not one of those law-abiding, quietly dead corpses, but one that's able to move around. From Washington DC to somewhere in Arabia, to be specific. 

I thought -- hoped, in fact -- that this was some strange shut-down process that my brain went through as it slowly died from a bullet through the frontal lobe. I couldn't come up with any other explanation for why I was naked in a sarcophagus surrounded by a bunch of extras from a big-budget remake of Cleopatra. 

As I lay there, these people -- these actors, wearing silly cheap robes \-- walked around the table, chanting and touching me in a most unusual manner. In an odd sort of way, it felt as though they were connecting me to something, or something to me. I liked it... and wanted more. 

Perhaps, I thought, this is just how my mind is interpreting doctors; doctors who were around me back in DC; doctors who were trying to turn me into a supersoldier. Then again, my mind was never really all that creative \-- except when it came to surviving -- in which case I was a regular fucking Picasso. 

So then, as if to signal an end to all that touching business, my body seized up in a big clench: scrunched-up face, clenched feet and fists, tight belly -- the works. Rigor mortis? Finally, I thought, I get to die and this weird B-movie imagery will fade to black. 

Not with the way my luck was running lately. 

When I relaxed from the clench, I felt more alive than I'd been in years, or possibly ever. They covered me in a sheet of coarse perfumed linen, and the chanting went quiet -- which was fine by me, since it was starting to get on my nerves. 

So here I am, wrapped in linen that was fragrant with cedar wood and amber, when my mind came back to me at last, though still filled with images that could only be from an Egypt that hasn't existed for three millennia. Then I felt... something. I was more than me now. I was still Alex Krycek \-- ex-Consortium lackey, assassin, and alien rebel sympathizer, among other things -- but now there was a bit of me that was Nefarka, Guardian of the Dead as well. I was an us now. Or we were me. Something like that. As long as it wasn't the damned oil, I really didn't mind. 

Beneath the sheet, I hallucinated like a Berkeley hippie. I saw a woman making sandals, only she was doing it three thousand years ago. I saw palm trees around the Sphinx, not to mention a nose on its face. Feelings surged through me, lots of them. I laughed and cried alternately. The very odd collection of actors and lunatics around me must have thought I was at least as mad as they, chuckling, weeping and reviewing the folly of my life from an entirely new perspective. The perspective of the living. I hadn't seen the world through those lenses in untold years. 

Just when I came to the realization that I was happier alive than dead, they unwrapped me from my fragrant little linen nest and the man who'd been leading the whole touching and chanting business looked right at me and smiled. 

"Greetings, Alex Ab-Nefarka. You died and were chosen for the resurrection. Welcome to immortality." 


	2. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See warnings and disclaimers in part 1

Alex Krycek-Nefarka emerged from Cairo International Airport, squinting against the brilliant afternoon sunlight. His sunglasses struggled to cut the glare from the fierce Egyptian sun as he scanned the crowd around him. 

Ibrahim's shout barely cut through the din of jostling travelers and bustling traffic. Alex spotted his loyal attendant by a blue Mercedes sedan and waded through the crowd, by turns dodging, ignoring and politely refusing the hordes of guides, hawkers and drivers offering their services. He handed his pair of duffels to the wiry limo driver, who tossed them in the trunk with little concern for the contents. The small man grinned, exposing crooked brown teeth, and chattered rapidly in Arabic while he slammed the trunk closed. 

One last look around before slipping into the back revealed nothing beyond the airport's typical chaos. The more persistent entrepreneurs took the opportunity to make a last loud pitch. With a smile and a shake of the head, Alex ducked in and closed the door. Ibrahim claimed the front passenger seat and kept a watchful eye as they headed toward Cairo. 

* * *

Despite a fourteen-hour flight from Chicago by way of Munich, Alex wasn't the least bit tired. In fact, he was brimming with energy. Being within the Lands of Faith again erased any hint of exhaustion he'd had. It was all he could do to force himself to relax against the Mercedes' back seat. He wanted to be out there, drinking in the sites and sounds of Cairo, basking in the glory in which the city was steeped, reveling in the return to the land of his rebirth. 

His heritage might have been Russian, but his soul belonged to Egypt. And not in any mere poetic sense. It was only thanks to the power that flowed through the region, the mystic strength of the Lands of Faith, that he was alive today. Alex literally owed his immortal soul to this ancient land. 

Never in his fevered imagination did Alex think his life might take the run it had. He'd long accepted the way things were supposed to go. Born of Russian immigrants -- both deeply involved with the Consortium's hybridization project -- he was trained in a variety of skills to make him a more useful tool. And he took pride in his achievements, at least secretly, wanting acceptance from his masters. As he grew older, however, and gained access to previously hidden information, his world view shattered. Alex began working with the alien rebels -- actively fighting colonization \-- a fight which ultimately led to his death at the hands of Assistant Director Walter Skinner of the FBI. 

But Alex got a second chance. Mighty Osiris, the Lord of Life, Sent him a messenger, Nefarka, to show Alex the path of redemption, the way of Ma'at -- cosmic order, truth, justice and balance. Alex was dead, but he could choose to live again, live forever, his soul joining with Nefarka's as one of the Undying... as a mummy. 

It was an easy choice to make, but only now was he beginning to understand the full scope of it. Only now did he start to understand what immortality truly meant. 

* * *

The Mercedes swung around, shaking Alex from his recollections as it exited Shari Salah Salim and turned south onto Shari as-Sayyida Nafisa. The area was clearly different from the cramped neighborhoods that spread out across the city to the northwest. Instead of nondescript slabs of concrete and mud brick jammed together with no room to breathe, they drove past a series of mausoleums and low stone buildings. Like any other neighborhood in Cairo, people strolled along toward various matters of business and pleasure, sat outside simple mud brick homes watching the world go by, and hawked wares by the side of the road. Except that, unlike any other neighborhood in Cairo, the people here lived and loved, ate and slept, among the dead. 

They were entering the Cities of the Dead. 

Entering the Cities of the Dead struck a chord in the ancient portion of Alex's soul. The living paid homage to the spirits of the dead here, nurturing their memories even as they cared for the mausoleums in which their bodies were laid to rest. The piece of Alex that was the ancient Egyptian physician Nefarka wept at the devotion the cemeteries' living residents showed. 

Although his wiser self came from that time, Alex's modern sensibilities found the Cities of the Dead an odd setup. Two great cemeteries fringed Cairo's edge to the east and south -- named, in prosaic fashion, the northern and southern cemeteries. Western media had coined the sensational phrase "Cities of the Dead." The southern cemetery was much older than the northern one, but both had a similar function. Not only did they have their traditional purpose -- storing the remains of the deceased -- but the living had long made their homes here. Entire neighborhoods of families dwelled there for centuries, beside and even in the many tombs. Squatters abound, but the majority of residents were there legally, acting as custodians for ancestral crypts. 

* * *

The Mercedes jerked to a stop a few minutes later. The sandy street wasn't designed with cars in mind, which made getting out a bit of a challenge. Pedestrians and cyclists called out heartfelt but quickly forgotten complaints as they squeezed past. Alex took a look around as Ibrahim paid the driver. As was customary, he had settled on a rate before they left the airport; after adding a few extra gineh as tip, Ibrahim sent the taxi on its way. 

Alex stood near a squat, whitewashed tomb and scanned the crowd. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary. No enemies for the moment. Still, it was only a matter of time before they learned he was back in town. The undead infested Cairo like rats in a landfill. Worse, the creatures had any number of mortals in their employ, watching for Alex and others of his kind. The Cities of the Dead were relatively safe, but there was never a guarantee. Despite the precautions he and Ibrahim had taken even before leaving Chicago, it was possible they were already on his trail. 

He nodded to Ibrahim and hefted his duffels. They headed generally south, weaving through the flow of foot traffic, and struggling against the oppressive heat that pressed down upon them. It may be mid-March, but the Cairene days already ranged into the eighties or hotter. And humid, too. The desert encroached all around, but the Nile shed a great deal of moisture through much of the city. 

Approaching the tunnel entrance -- a small mud brick dwelling built on a plot next to a large Muslim crypt, complete with courtyard -- Alex sensed something out of place. He allowed himself to relax, trying to slip his senses in tune with his surroundings. Mummies possessed a kind of insight, an ability to discern strong emotions within others -- in this case, nervous excitement. The feel of a voyeur, of someone observing something which stirred them greatly. Frustrating; he'd hoped to reach the safe house unnoticed. Now instead of relaxing before his meeting, he'd have to deal with a spy. Their tail was skilled enough that Alex couldn't pick him out without revealing that he'd been spotted. He decided to draw the shadow along until they could set up a way to reverse the tables of stalker and stalkee. The guy was bound to be small fish; Alex was more interested in who he was working for. 

Alex followed Ibrahim into the nondescript hovel. It was completely unremarkable, two small rooms split by a thin plaster wall and a woven hanging. A scattering of pillows was the only furniture, and a collection of pans and metal storage containers comprised the kitchen. The other room took up two thirds of the building and would be the combination living room/bedroom. Although a common enough setup for the city, it was only a front. 

The curtain parted in response to the noise of their entry, revealing sharp black eyes in a dark, lined face. A wide grin bloomed on the old man's face and his eyes lit with delight. 

"Amenti Alex! Ibrahim! I did not expect you so soon." The elder Eset-a, a follower of the cult of Osiris, spoke in English out of deference to Ibrahim. Faruq was equally conversant in ancient Egyptian, his native Arabic and English. Although Egyptian was as vivid in Alex's mind as English and Russian, he had only a passing familiarity with Arabic, but nothing sufficient for extended conversation. In turn, Ibrahim, like most of the cultists, knew only scattered phrases in the tongue of the Amenti. Conversations between mummies and their followers were often in a patchwork of languages. 

Faruq tried to give a hug and help with the bags at the same time. Alex waited with a bemused smile until the two Egyptians sorted themselves out, then laughed as the old guy began genuflecting while tugging at one of the duffel bag's handles. 

"Hello, Faruq," he said, chuckling at the old man's antics. Faruq had the utmost respect for him, Alex knew, but the man was a born ham. Alex would have played along, but he had to take care of their tail first. "I'm sorry to be an ungracious guest, but we have some business to attend to." 

"I am your servant, Amenti." Faruq's smile remained, but his eyes snapped to Alex's own with the intensity of a hunting hawk. "Tell me what you need, and I will supply it." 

"Actually, you should probably stay put. Ibrahim, I want you to run an errand." 

The Eset-a cultist looked confused for a moment, then nodded. "A distraction, Amenti?" 

"Of sorts. Only for five minutes or so. Run to a nearby market and pick up some fruit or something. Just make sure to look suspicious when you leave, but don't overdo it." 

Ibrahim gave a sharp nod and slipped back outside. He took a quick look around and back into the dwelling before heading off. 

"Faruq, let's get over to the safe house. I'll want to inform any of the others who are there." 

"I am sorry, but there are no other Amenti at the mausoleum." 

A handful of the Undying and their mortal assistants could normally be found in the safe house, sharing information, planning, recuperating, and/or just hanging out. Alex had been so wrapped up in his mission to Chicago that he'd forgotten about the trouble in Cairo. Plus, it was hard not to know about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, which was threatening to explode into full-blown war. Mummies and their helpers were all out pursuing one mission or another -- or, in some cases, awaiting the return to life after being killed. 

"Right. We'll just have to take care of this one ourselves then." 

Faruq went to a battered toilet that sat exposed in the far corner. Like the rest of the hovel's rustic design, this was common for the area. Much of the Cities of the Dead had access to electricity and plumbing, but many residents had to cobble together their own hookups. Old buildings like this, slapped together before indoor plumbing, had jury-rigged sinks and toilets. The toilet was an old design with the water tank set into the wall above the bowl. The pipes went under the floor and led outside, where they were buried under perhaps a foot of earth in a channel residents dug over to the main junction. 

Faruq pulled the chain hanging from the tank and, keeping the chain tugged down, grabbed the toilet bowl rim and pulled it toward him. The toilet flushed, covering the squeal as a square of the cracked concrete to which the toilet was attached tilted up. The water in the bottom of the bowl poured out in a coughing gurgle as the toilet was disconnected from its plumbing. Faruq let go of the pull chain and tilted the toilet the rest of the way over. Grabbing for support the pipe that ran down from the water tank, he dropped through the hole to the tunnel below. Alex handed down the luggage, which the old Eset-a cultist set out of the way of the water that had leaked down. After slipping off his sunglasses and jumping down himself, Alex grabbed the pipe that led out from the bottom of the bowl and levered the whole thing back into place. It took a little jiggling to reconnect the pipe to the regular plumbing, and when he did Alex heard a faint click as the panel locked back into position. Then came a gurgling as the water from the tank was unblocked and ran to fill the toilet bowl. While Alex took care of the toilet, Faruq felt for a switch on the wall. A dim red bulb lit up a few yards down, giving them just enough light to make their way down the tunnel. 

Alex always felt a little foolish entering the safe house this way, like he was playing in a James Bond scenario. It wasn't a game, he knew; hidden passages like this one were of vital importance to keep their hideout as secret as possible. 

The passage ended after fifty yards at a heavy steel door inscribed with a series of hieroglyphs. Beyond was a series of steps that led to a matching door. The protective glyphs were the work of the Kher-minu, mummies like Alex who specialized in the magic of amulets and wards. Bonded to the steel plate in this fashion, the symbols enabled the door to withstand anything up to an anti-tank round. 

Inside was a series of chambers carved in traditional Egyptian style. The hieroglyphs on the walls related tales of the gods and the Amenti, mixed with further protective wards like those on the doors. The central chamber was created centuries ago as the burial chamber of Beyd al-Qalarayn, a Mamluk general. This was unusual, as mausoleums typically interred the deceased above ground. Seemed al-Qalarayn was a bit paranoid, and secretly directed that his body be laid to rest where his enemies wouldn't find it. An African scholar, who knew of the now-obscure al-Qalarayn's odd internment quirk, used it as the basis for his own retreat after rebirth. The leader of the Eset-a in the area, he expanded the single underground chamber into a number of rooms that spread out below the City of the Dead. Though run by the Eset-a, the safe house was available to all mummies and their mortal helpers. Since the only entrance to the tomb was through one of the half-dozen secret tunnels, privacy was assured. 

Alex had stayed here after his rebirth into his third life. It felt as much like home as did his apartment in St. Petersburg or Nefarka's rooms long ago in the palace of Amenhotep III. He would have to wait to enjoy his return; for now, he had to try and turn the tables on his shadow. 

Faruq had listened to Alex's brief explanation as they hustled down the tunnel. Once inside the main chamber, he headed for another room. "I will get something to help you blend in, Amenti." 

Alex nodded, busy withdrawing a slim leather case from one of his duffels. Inside the case was a selection of gold and brass jewelry that shone warmly in the light. A few of the pieces were rendered in a traditional Egyptian style, but most looked filtered through the lens of an Art Deco sensibility. All included various hieroglyphs tooled into the surface, often with silver highlights, as part of the design. He'd fashioned these amulets himself, infused them with his own sekhem, his life force. The mystic energy could have been bound into a charm made of virtually any durable material, but Alex preferred the warm luster of gold and brass. Likewise, the style need not reflect ancient Egypt, but he felt his art should honor the past. Alex had removed most before going through customs, not wanting to draw attention to himself. The only amulet he wore between the airport and here was the Ankh-Meket, the scarab of life, that hung around his neck. 

Alex plucked out three rings, one designed as an abstraction of a scorpion, another with a series of hieroglyphs along its circumference and a third fashioned in the shape of the uraeus, the hooded cobra. Next he grabbed two bracelets embossed with a series of hieroglyphs, each featuring the symbol of a god -- Sekhmet and Selket, respectively. Finally he took three matching necklaces with a glyph of Mentu inscribed on the back of a black scarab. Alex dug in his bag for a velvet clamshell case and removed a pair of carved figurines. 

Donning the various amulets, Alex felt wrapped in a cocoon of power that augmented the protective aura of his spirit. Immortality filled him with unbridled energy as it was. Adding his protective charms, Alex felt ready to conquer the world before dinner. 

Alex was slipping the three flash scarabs around his neck when Faruq returned with a light robe and cloth skullcap, what locals called a djellaba and tarboosh. "These should be adequate." 

"Perfect, thanks." Using the djellaba and cap, he shouldn't stand out in a crowd. With a nod of thanks, he donned the djellaba and tarboosh and headed for a second door that led to a different tunnel. 

* * *

Alex sped down the tunnel, this one little more than a glorified conduit for electrical cables. He popped up amid of cluster of stunted date palm trees a few yards from the hovel they'd entered. In seconds he was circling the area. He tasted the faintest flavor of anticipation; from the shadow, it seemed. But where? Alex took his time, moving as fluidly as thought. Even so, he found nobody peeking around corners or skulking behind obstructions. That left one of the two dozen people within sight -- a couple street vendors selling wares, residents attending to domestic tasks, customers hanging out at an open-air coffeehouse up the road. None looked out of place. Taking a moment to think about it, the best possibility soon became clear. Whoever picked up their trail must have been watching the hovel even before Alex and Ibrahim arrived. Only at the coffeehouse -- or qahwa -- could someone sit for a long period of time without attracting attention. 

He circled around and approached the qahwa from further up the lane. It was a no frills affair, a mud brick structure almost indistinguishable from the hovel that hid the tunnel. One wall was nothing more than a pair of wooden doors, currently folded back to reveal a serving counter. A trio of wobbly tables stood in a ragged line in a clear spot by the street. Two men sat at one, playing backgammon. Slipping in a bit more, Alex determined that the one facing him was the shop's owner and operator. Typical to relax in a game with a customer during a slow spell. But the old guy he played was sitting just so, allowing him to keep an eye on the hovel and almost any approach to it. Clever old bastard, looking like your average Cairene with no place he needed to be and all the time in the world to get there. 

The old man waved his hands over the backgammon board. Seemed like the guy was just waiting to confirm Ibrahim, who was currently returning to the hovel, before heading out. Alex ducked to one side in case the old man came his way. Then he heard the faint sound of a canon. A second later, words in Arabic crackled through the air, amplified to the point of irritation by the loudspeakers scattered throughout the cemetery. Even with the canon shot to prepare him, Alex was still startled by the Muslim call to prayer. He took advantage of the distraction to slip back to the safe house. 


	3. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See warnings and disclaimers in part 1

In a desert whose mountains are made of sand, whose sky is streaked with light and dark shades of green that roil like clouds in an unfelt storm, I make my way though the ruins of a temple, or a mansion that once belonged to a king. There are pillars on their sides, snapped in half or snapped off at the base -- only a handful still standing -- holding nothing up but the sky; portions of walls against which sand has been banked by the constant furnace wind; statuary whose faces have been scoured blind; shards of bowls and urns.

There is heat, but I can't feel it. I've been here before, and not just in my dreams.

A sudden gust punches my spine and I stumble forward, awkwardly catching myself against a crumbling, waist-high wall before I fall. On it, faded by the unseen sun, chipped by falling rock, are hieroglyphs. I don't look at them; don't need to. They comprise a fragment of a much longer tale; the story of another race and the battle that forced them out of the land of the Lower Nile.

Another gust forces me backward, half turning me around. A third makes me duck my head and move on, skirting a table tipped on its side, nearly tripping through an empty doorway with no walls on either side.

The wind blows more strongly.

The sand doesn't move.

I smell fire and burning tar.

I hear my own breathing, rough and shallow, as I try to keep my balance against the wind and the soft, shifting sands.

I stumble through rooms and courtyards until finally I see a pedestal as high as my chest, standing alone in a wasteland of rocks and rocky sand. Its top is flat and wide; its sides streaked with stains that could be rust, could be blood.

I walk around it slowly, frowning, reaching out to dust the pitted marble with my fingertips.

I have no idea what it is, or what it held, until my left foot kicks something buried at the base. I lean over and see a streak of black, carefully brush the sand away and blink once, slowly.

It takes both hands to lift the three-foot statue from the ground, and my face is streaked with perspiration as I place it on the pedestal.

Anubis... exquisitely fashioned in onyx, every detail clear despite the complete absence of color. The jackal-headed god stands with one foot slightly behind the other, teeth slightly bared, eyes slightly narrowed. Its left hand is raised waist-high, palm out. Its right arm is raised over its head, but it stops at the elbow. The rest is gone.

I back away from it slowly, scowling as I scan the ground for signs of the missing limb. I don't know what the god had been holding in its other hand, and I don't care. The fact that it's been mutilated is enough to make me nervous.

The green sky darkens. The wind begins to scream through holes in the rock. Something tells me to leave -- now.

And something else makes me watch as Anubis turns his head toward me and opens his jaws.

* * *

John Doggett jerked awake -- heart pounding like a jackhammer -- and stuffed a fist in his mouth to stifle the scream threatening to escape. He quickly scanned the plane's cabin, thankful the few passengers on board were either asleep or too far away to have noticed him. After taking a few moments to get his breathing under control, he rose and slowly made his way to the bathroom. He locked the door, filled the sink, then splashed cold water over his face, neck and short-cropped hair. When he lifted his head, the figure that stared back at him from the mirror wasn't one he recognized. Dark circles had taken up permanent residence under his blue eyes, their blackness a sharp contrast to his wan skin. Three days worth of stubble added to his macabre appearance.

He grabbed a paper towel from the wall dispenser and dried himself, then tossed the crumbled wad into the trash. He briefly rubbed a hand over his chest, remembering the incident which gave him a second chance at life, and smiled.

Doggett took a deep breath to calm himself, then unlocked the door and returned to his seat for the remainder of the flight.

* * *

He exited the plane, barely aware of doing so. Each step was a supreme effort of will, but he kept going. He had to keep going.

Then he saw them, or rather him. A large black man, thick from shoulders through the waist, limbs like tree trunks, head a wide slab with two glittering black eyes staring out over a pug nose and thick-lipped mouth. He wore a loose tunic and trousers with sandals and some kind of bandoleer slung across his chest. A trio of Egyptians, two men and a woman, tagged along behind the guy, midgets next to his tremendous size. The big man, obviously the leader, stepped forward with a big grin on his face and his thick arms spread wide in greeting.

"John Doggett!"

The man managed a nod before the blackness swallowed him.

* * *

When he awoke, it was to begin a new life; a life as John Doggett-Ankhotep.

Unfortunately the transition to one of the Undying was not an easy one for Doggett. His body was weak even before death, and was now even more so. He needed a place to safely rest and heal.

The cultists assured him they knew of such a place. After eating a small meal, Doggett dressed and followed the others from the temple.

* * *

The trip was made under cover of darkness; another safety precaution. They arrived at the safe house and were met by Faruq. He took Doggett's duffel, ushered him inside, then led him through the tunnels to the main chamber.

Alex was there, seated facing the door and sipping on tea. When Doggett saw him, he dropped to his knees praising Osiris, the Lord of Life, for not only granting him a second chance, but returning to him that which he thought lost forever.

"John..."

Alex pulled Doggett into his arms and tightly embraced him. John felt Alex's sekhem -- his life force -- flowing around and through him, causing his skin to prickle. It was invigorating, exciting and arousing all at the same time.

All too quickly, Alex pulled away, then hauled them both into a standing position. John's legs were shaky, but Alex was patient as he lead him to his bedchamber.

* * *

Alex helped John remove his clothes, tucked him under the covers then kissed him softly on the forehead.

"Alex..."

"Rest... we'll catch up on other things when you're well."

John nodded and closed his eyes, quickly drifting off to sleep.

* * *

**Egypt  
1372 B.C.**

The young man silently made his way across the darkened courtyard, past the two mighty towered pylons until he reached the wooden doors plated with electrum and flanked by pillars shaped and colored into the likeness of lotus flowers. He knocked softly.

"Enter."

Nefarka, chief physician to the pharaoh Amenhotep III, rose from his wooden truckle bed, the struts groaning at his movement. He was naked, the light from a clay oil lamp reflecting from his oiled body. The scent of jasmine hung heavy in the air.

Ankhotep studied the tall figure before him. Though not young, the body still bore the mark of many years of rigorous training. The chest was broad, smooth and muscular with dark nipples; hips narrow; legs long with only a slight dusting of hair. But Ankhotep was more interested in what was clustered in the fork of those long legs.

The younger man stepped forward, then quickly dropped to his knees. He gently massaged Nefarka's scrotum until it hung down, balls heavy with their weight of sperm, then caressed the penis with long supple strokes until it grew proud and tall under his ministrations.

"Enough, Ankhotep. Do you want the night to end so soon?"

Ankhotep chuckled softly, rose and moved next to the bed. He removed his clothes, carefully folded them, then placed them on a low stool.

Nefarka dipped a sponge into a pot of purified water and began washing his young lover's chest. Rivulets of water ran down his body and reflected the flickering oil flame with points of light. Then Nefarka washed the clefts and fissures, making sure any dirt was completely removed. As the sponge passed over the younger man's genitals, the scrotum contracted, forcing the testicles under, while Ankhotep's cock diminished from its former hardness. Nefarka was disappointed, but knew that later actions would reverse this. Washing completed, he dried his lover with a linen towel, then massaged him with the same fragrant oil covering his own body.

Ankhotep laid down on the bed and drew his legs up, allowing Nefarka access to his body. The older man poured more oil into his hand, then ran his fingers up and down his lover's crack, thoroughly coating it. He repeated the process, this time rubbing the opening to Ankhotep's ass in small circles. He continued this for a few moments, then pushed the finger inside his lover and wriggled it around.

"Please..." Ankhotep moaned in pleasure and thrust against the invading digit, wanting more.

"You must learn patience."

Nefarka pulled the finger in and out of his lover until Ankhotep's thrusts nearly knocked him from the small bed. He then coated his hand with more oil and repeated the process with two fingers. When he deemed the young man ready, Nefarka bent down, took Ankhotep's cock in his mouth and rubbed the small protrusion inside his lover's ass with his finger.

Ankhotep's scream reverberated off the walls as the orgasm tore through him. Before he could fully recover, Nefarka coated his cock with oil and thrust into Ankhotep's still quivering ass. The younger man gasped in pleasure, then wrapped his legs around Nefarka's waist, drawing him deeper inside. Nefarka's clutched his lover's hips, thrust hard, then withdrew until only the tip of his penis remained inside. He angled his thrusts so his cock rubbed against the protrusion inside his lover, causing Ankhotep's cock to harden after only a few moments.

Nefarka's thrusts came quicker, the sound of flesh slapping flesh filling the small room. He reached down and stroked Ankhotep's cock, triggering the younger man's second orgasm. As the muscles of Ankhotep's ass contracted against his cock, Nefarka reached his own orgasm and flooded his lover with his warm seed.

The older man carefully withdrew his cock and lowered Ankhotep's legs to the bed. He then retrieved the sponge, cleaned them both, then blew out the lamp and crawled in next to his lover.

"I love you," Ankhotep said softly, placing a gentle kiss on Nefarka's chest.

"And I you, beloved."

Nefarka reached down and pulled a linen sheet over them both, then drew Ankhotep closer so he was nestled against the older man's shoulder.

Their breathing evened out, and soon both men slept contentedly in each other's arms.

* * *

Alex rose quietly, not wanting to disturb John, and headed for the bathroom. After taking a quick shower, he toweled off, then dressed in a pair of tan cotton slacks and a blue short-sleeved cotton crewneck shirt.

Next he opened their protective case, removed a pair of carved dog figurines, placed them next to the bed and whispered a command in Egyptian. As he focused his will, the figurines began swelling. In a manner of seconds, they took on the form of two huge black mastiffs -- jokingly named Sherlock and Watson. Ebon eyes looked at him with an unnatural intelligence, awaiting his commands.

Alex's specialty was amulets, not effigies. He knew enough to get by, but nothing near the level of talent required to make magnificent beasts such as these. They were a gift from Lu Wen Khutenptah; the finely crafted pieces of ebon became creatures as swift and powerful as the most purebred mastiff, but possessing wits and cunning far beyond that of a natural animal. As he'd had to infuse them with a portion of his own life force, Alex used them only sparingly.

Still speaking Egyptian, Alex pointed at John and gave the beasts one command, "Protect him" before leaving the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

* * *

Alex strolled down a narrow corridor and entered the main chamber. Faruq was there while noises from a set of narrow stairs suggested Ibrahim was up in the tomb.

"Good morning Amenti Alex. How is Amenti John?"

"Morning, Faruq. John's still sleeping. He'll probably be doing a lot of that for the next couple of days. So don't expect to see much of him until he's fully healed."

"I understand. Are you ready for your breakfast?"

Alex nodded, then headed toward the stairs that led to the mausoleum courtyard. The stairway ascended behind a mural wall in the Mausoleum of al-Qalarayn, accessed by a false panel at one end. The old Mamluk interior murals had been redone in Egyptian decor, including four statues of Egyptian warriors placed in the corners and an ornate sarcophagus in the room's center. The face on the lid was a stylization of the tomb's new owner, Basel Nyambek-Senemut. Faruq had mentioned the Eset-a leader's body rested inside, awaiting a return to life. There was no timetable as to how long a resurrection took -- for some it took days, while others took months. Until Basel's soul gathered sufficient strength to return to its flesh, his body would rest within the sarcophagus. Alex paused on the way through the chamber and placed a hand on the sarcophagus in honor of his fallen comrade.

The next room was an antechamber, meant for offerings to the dead. Like the mausoleum's exterior, this had been left in the style popular among the Bahri Mamluks. It opened onto the mausoleum's courtyard, a tiled square that looked upon the vast expanse of sky above. Aside from the occasional sound of passersby on the surrounding streets and the distant murmur of street traffic a half mile away, Alex felt the calm of isolation.

A stone wall ten feet high surrounded the courtyard, with a dry fountain in the center, its trio of Mamluk soldiers carved to life size. A scattering of lights was strung around the wall, shedding soft illumination in the cool Egyptian nights. Alex took a seat on a padded chair Ibrahim had arranged around a low table on which sat a tea service and a tray of various fruits.

"Morning Ibrahim," Alex said as the other man poured him tea.

"Good morning, Alex. Where is Amenti John?"

Alex smiled. "You don't need to be so formal, Ibrahim. You may just call him John. And as I told Faruq, he'll be sleeping a great deal for the next few days while his body heals. After that, he'll need to be instructed in our ways. I'll expect you and Faruq to help with that."

Ibrahim nodded. "Of course, Alex. I would be honored to assist you."

"Good. Now," Alex popped a date in his mouth. "What else do you have for me besides this?"

* * *

John did spend most of the next two days sleeping. Alex somehow knew when he'd wakened and attended him, either helping John to the bathroom or giving him food and water. Then he'd sit with him until he knew John was asleep again. The few times Alex had left the safe house on business, either Faruq or Ibrahim looked after John. Alex had instructed Sherlock to inform either of them when he woke.

The safe house had a visitor the morning of the third day. Alex woke to find Faruq speaking with a slight Asian woman with short-cropped hair, and wearing a short-sleeved top with a shallow scooped neck, capri pants and sandals. She carried a battered satchel over one shoulder. Seeing Alex enter, she inclined her head and smiled warmly. "Alex Krycek-Nefarka."

"Lu Wen Khutenptah." Alex gave a shallow bow in greeting, then stepped forward and the two shared a brief hug.

"How are Sherlock and Watson working out?"

"They're great; thanks. Unfortunately I haven't gotten as much use out of them as I would've liked. How is Xian?"

Lu Wen's face flushed with pleasure. "He is very well; thank you for asking." Like others of the mummy caste know as Sakhmu, Lu Wen was a master of the art of effigy. She had fashioned a number of enchanted figurines and statues, including Alex's mastiffs. Perhaps her greatest creation was the small dragon, Xian. In its inert form, the creature was a breathtaking work of art, carved in detail from a ten-inch block of ebony. Lu Wen had but to command the change, infusing her creation with a portion of her own spiritual energy, and Xian transformed into a miniature version of a dragon from Chinese folklore. It was a lithe, two-foot length of solid muscle, with a dramatic pair of feathered wings that extended from its snake-like body. The scales of its body and feathers of its wings were black, with a lush rainbow sheen like oil on water. The creature was as intelligent and perceptive as Lu Wen and handled a variety of tasks for her, from reconnaissance to guard duty to delivering messages.

Although from different castes, Nicholas and Lu Wen shared a creative temperament, and could pass the hours discussing the finer points of their respective arts. But that wasn't why Lu Wen was here.

Pointing toward the narrow stairs that led to the mausoleum courtyard, Alex continued, "Shall we?"

* * *

"The fountain's new," Alex remarked as Ibrahim poured each of them tea.

Lu Wen nodded. "Yes, I installed it a few weeks ago."

"Your design, or...?"

"Yes, it is my own. It looks authentic, does it not?"

"It does indeed." Alex often marveled at Lu Wen's skills, not in the least because she didn't restrict herself to one style. Many of the Undying -- including Alex -- created amulets and effigies in the Egyptian tradition. But Lu Wen drew as much upon her modern Asian sensibilities. And, as the Mamluk fountain indicated, she was expanding even beyond this. "Does it work?"

Lu Wen favored him with a Mona Lisa smile. "When it needs to."

Alex took another sip of tea. "So... I suppose you want to know about Chicago?"

"Yes; I am most curious why you have returned to Egypt so suddenly. Two months ago, you reported success. Yet you return empty-handed. What happened? Where is the Heart of Osiris?"

The Heart of Osiris -- ab-Asar, as it was known in Egyptian. The mummies no longer spoke its ancient Egyptian name. Calling it simply "the Heart" was by no means a brilliant subterfuge, but its true name held too much power to be uttered. The same held for the other pieces of Osiris that were long ago scattered across the land. For the Heart was, in fact, a piece of their god. Osiris was eternal, but his jealous brother Set had sundered his body, thereby barring his return to the living world. Only a power equal to Osiris' own could have kept his body from reforming, and this Set had done with damnable effectiveness.

With Osiris barred from restoring his flesh, the task fell to the mummies, his progeny, to recover his long lost pieces. Once reassembled, the God of Life would walk the earth as he had millennia before. Osiris would rise and beat back the corruption of Apophis with the light of justice. Yet it was not a task the mummies could easily accomplish. Their enemies were legion and had an active hand in making sure Osiris' body remained lost. Even the venerable Imkhu, the Revered Ones who were the first to be resurrected in the days of ancient Egypt, had yet to collect more than a handful of the artifacts. Most often, rumors of one of the pieces turned out to be nothing more than a mistake, a hoax or a trap.

Alex's fellow mummies had assumed the same in this case. Lu Wen represented another group within the Amenti, just as Alex allied himself with the Eset-a. Lu Wen was loyal to the Cult of Isis, those mummies most skilled in the ancient mystic arts, or hekau. They were all disciples of Osiris, but each group had its own view of how best to fulfill the god's wishes. Though united in the battle against Apophis and its minions, each faction operated on its own as much as it worked with the others. But the groups did at least keep one another abreast of their efforts... most of the time, anyway. Even the Undying weren't immune to the machinations of internal politics.

Alex's mission was not secret within mummy circles, and he was expected to forward reports of his progress if he encountered anything of note. None anticipated he would confirm he'd actually found the Heart. Alex made quite a coup with his announcement. The other groups were understandably interested in such a significant find. Then he returned to Egypt, weeks earlier than planned. His contemporaries expected him to head straight for Saqqara, Abydos, Edfu, or some other mummy stronghold, the Heart protectively against his breast. In coming to the Cities of the Dead, and without the Heart in his possession, it was evident something had gone grievously wrong.

"Your call announcing your return revealed little," Lu Wen added when Alex didn't speak immediately. "You understand that I am curious."

Alex leaned back in the chair and sighed. "First, let me apologize for being so brief over the phone. Seemed best to wait until I could speak to someone face-to-face."

Lu Wen waved one hand, rings flashing in the light. "I understand the need for caution. I am here now, so you may speak without reservation."

Before Alex could begin, however, the two Amenti were joined by a third -- Doggett, flanked by Sherlock and Watson. Dressed in tight blue jeans and a gray t-shirt that clung to his chest like a second skin, Alex felt a surge of heat shoot straight to his groin. He rose and extended his hand to the other man.

"John..."

"I hope I'm not interruptin anything."

"Not at all. John, let me introduce Lu Wen Khutenptah. Lu Wen, this is John Doggett-Ankhotep. John has just recently become one of the Undying."

Doggett nodded in acknowledgement, then extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you."

Lu Wen returned the gesture. "Welcome John Doggett-Ankhotep. Please join us."

Ibrahim appeared with a cup and poured tea for the new arrival, then placed a bowl containing a mixture of fruits on the table between the three Amenti.

"I feel a bit lost here," Doggett said running a hand through his short-cropped hair.

Alex placed a comforting hand on John's arm. "We all feel that way at first. It's alright; I'll help you get through this."

John covered Alex's hand with his. The two men continued to gaze at one another, seemingly oblivious to Lu Wen's presence.

"Ahem..." Lu Wen cleared her throat tactfully. "Please continue with your report, Alex."

Alex felt his cheek's flush. Still facing John he explained, "I was just telling Lu Wen about my recent trip to Chicago in search of the Heart."

Doggett nodded. The older, wiser portion of himself understood the reference.

"When I left for the States I thought I was just following the rumors that one of the Osiris fragments was in Chicago." He paused, recalling what a long shot it was that one of the greatest artifacts of the ancient Egyptians would be secreted in northern Illinois. Alex had gone to the States with little fanfare. "Six of us at first, myself and five of the Eset-a. No other immortals to spare chasing after hearsay, right? I understood the skepticism. I wasn't positive the Heart was in the area myself. But we had everything to gain by investigating. And I learned the rumors were true -- it was stashed in the Temple of Akhenaton."

Even now, millennia after the followers of Akhenaton had ceased being a threat to the mummies, anger stirred within Alex. His wiser self, Nefarka, had lived in that dark time of the 18th Dynasty, when the Cult of the Sun-Disk arose to become a bitter enemy of the Undying. He was a mortal, a physician dedicated to serving the divine pharaoh in the court of Amenhotep III. His service continued when the son took the throne, but he soon saw Amenhotep IV was nothing like his father. The new pharaoh changed his name to Akhenaton, spurning Osiris and the other gods in favor of the hopeful usurper Aton (or Aten, depending on how you chose to translate from the ancient Egyptian.) A deity without gender, embodied in the rays of the sun, Aton was declared the only true god, the creator of all life and rule of all... with Akhenaton as his divine counterpart.

It was a revolutionary idea on many levels. Aside from sending shockwaves through Egyptian society that shattered generations of religious and cultural traditions, Akhenaton's new faith dared to defy the eternal power of Osiris. Immortal defenders of Egypt, the mummies were appalled to hear that anyone, especially Pharaoh himself, would attempt such a thing. Egyptian priests may have labeled Amun-Re the king of gods, but that was little more than political maneuvering among the temples. Even they dared not dispute the unrivaled might of Osiris, Lord of Life.

The physician Nefarka was one of many shocked by the strife that arose in the wake of the pharaoh's bizarre behavior. Generations of peace and enlightenment seemed in danger of being buried under the brewing disharmony. The conflict was most fierce between Pharaoh Akhenaton and the mummies. The Undying tried to reach a reconciliation. Was devotion to Aton so different that it could not reconcile with the greater pantheon? Akhenaton's rebuffs seemed to indicate so. The mummies were baffled, some suspecting Akhenaton might be an agent of Apophis -- despite the Corrupter being a creature of darkness, not the light that Akhenaton revered. Their peaceful efforts went for naught, and scuffles broke out with increasing frequency. Nefarka bandaged the wounds of pharaoh's guard, becoming ever more ill at ease with the events unfolding around him.

Then came the day that the pharaoh challenged the Undying outright. Akhenaton claimed they served false gods, and so were heretics to Aton and its followers. These claims were matched with powerful magic Akhenaton and his priests directed at the mummies -- some altered form of the very hekau the Undying used.

Egypt was on the verge of religious civil war, with Akhenaton and his bride Nefertiti on one side and the Undying on the other. Rather than trigger outright warfare, the Undying faded into the background, leaving the pharaoh the seeming victor. They didn't want to see the great empire ravaged by internal strife, but neither could they allow Akhenaton to defy the will of Osiris. They finally decided they had no choice but to engineer Akhenaton's death and destroy the cult.

It was not a course undertaken lightly, and the sentence was carried out only against Akhenaton himself and his most loyal followers. His wife, Nefertiti, recanted her claims of loyalty to the Sun-Disk, Aton, and was spared her husband's fate. The Undying placed her on the throne to rule Egypt... only to learn a few years later that Nefertiti secretly continued her heretical worship. She vanished soon after, along with the remaining followers of Aton. The child-king Tutankhamen received the crown next. Nefarka was one of a handful of retainers who nurtured the young pharaoh as best they could. Strife on the throne of Egypt continued with Tut, though, as he fell to Set's agents a short time later.

Like most citizens of the day, Nefarka was conflicted about the rise of the Aton-u, the sun-disk cult. He was disturbed by the thought that any force could supplant Osiris and his deified brethren; yet how could Aton's supremacy be contested if even the powerful mummies bowed to his might? Only later, after Nefarka died trying successfully to protect the young pharaoh Tutankhamen from assassination, did he learn all that the mummies had done. Nefarka's spirit lived on in Duat, the underworld kingdom of Osiris. There he heard the full tale from Sahura, one of the first mummies, during one of that venerable one's death cycles.

After Pharaoh Akhenaton's death, the mummies did what they could to eradicate all memory of his cult, but Nefertiti and other disciples continued to worship of the Sun-Disk. The Undying soon had more important matters to attend to, as Apophis and Set continued growing in power. It was only centuries later that mystics in the Cult of Isis found compelling evidence that Nefertiti had taken a treasured artifact of Egypt and the Undying: the Heart of Osiris.

Learning that the heretical Aton-u possessed this most holy of items incensed the immortals. But the Undying were few in number. With only scattered loyalists for assistance, the immortals did their best to track down the Heart as well as the other lost artifacts.

When Osiris awoke, Nefarka was among those commanded to join with a modern soul to form a new age of immortals. As he was born into his third life, Alex Krycek-Nefarka vowed that he would let nothing stand in the way of restoring Osiris to his place of supremacy.

"And did the Cult of the Sun-Disk give you trouble?" Lu Wen asked, trying to guess what went wrong.

"They didn't even know what they had. The temple was impressive, though; designed by someone with mystic talent. The Heart was kept inside a sealed sarcophagus, the entire place designed with mystic wards that shielded it from detection."

Alex sipped tepid tea. "After I realized the Temple of Akhenaton really did hold the Heart, I revised the plan. The thing radiates unmistakable power. Once we removed it from its protective sarcophagus, every supernatural in the area with the slightest bit of sensitivity would've picked up on it. No way could I have gotten it back here safely with only five mortals as backup. But since everyone here was gathering up for the assault on the Dead Sea... well."

"I was not aware that you had need of such aid at that time," Lu Wen said.

"I told Basel, but he said there was no one available. He sent me ten more Eset-a instead. Still, fifteen cultists don't compare to one mummy -- no offense to Ibrahim and Faruq." He nodded to the two cultists, who nodded their understanding. "And, I admit, I didn't think it was a big deal; the Heart was secure where it was. And once our group gained control of the temple with more advance security measures in place, we were fine to wait until a few Amenti could reach us and help bring the heart back. Despite that, I started feeling a... an urgency that I should get it to Egypt as soon as possible. And I was right. We picked up someone casing the temple; even got some decent images of him. I routed the guy's face through some government databases -- FBI and Interpol, that kind of thing -- hoping to get a match from a mug shot or government employee ID or something. But we got nothing. To make a long story short, it turns out the 'man' isn't a man at all; he's a zombie."

Lu Wen looked at him, then cast her eyes over at Ibrahim.

"It is true, Amenti," Ibrahim asserted. "A bloodless devil killed many and fled with Alex as his hostage."

"He calls himself James Maxwell," Alex explained. "He was a small time hood from the thirties. I wasn't too worried about him. We were secure in the temple and I created a prison to store him in if he was dumb enough to come after me.

"But what I didn't count on was someone else attacking the temple. The men recovered quickly and converged to protect the Heart, and it would have been fine except this Maxwell chose that moment to make his own move."

Lu Wen frowned. "So you fought this zombie. And the Heart...?"

"The people who attacked the temple took it. The Eset-a left alive tracked them down and tried to recover it. But you know the Heart gives off a unique energy signature. Some undead in the area sensed it and took the Heart for themselves."

"Wait." Lu Wen was confused. "Why were you not there to recover it yourself?"

"Because Maxwell..." Alex's face flushed. "He kidnapped me. A series of bad luck, overconfidence, and underestimating the enemy. Believe me, I won't make the same mistake again."

"And how did you get free?"

"He ended up accidentally killing me. After I was resurrected, I got away. But he followed me and I was caught off-guard. Focused on getting the Heart back from the vampires, Maxwell surprised us. He captured the Heart and fled with it."

The silence that followed was profound. Finally Lu Wen asked "Do you know where this creature has gone? Do you know where the Heart is now?"

Alex shook his head. "The compass scarab I created to locate the Heart was destroyed in the fight. But I have a good idea where to find it."

"Well?" Lu Wen demanded. "Where?"

"Here. He's coming here to Egypt."


	4. Enemy at the Gates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See warnings and disclaimers in part 1

As Alex surmised, Maxwell was indeed in Egypt. He'd traveled there safely hidden in the hold of a tanker. Now he was wandering about a half-mile from where the ship had docked, the Heart safe in his pocket. He'd moved it there from his shirt, unable to take its unnatural warmth and psychic pulses.

James Maxwell was maybe an inch or two over six feet, but his physical appearance was of someone much larger. He was lean, almost gaunt, and clean shaven with short dark hair and heavy brows. He looked to be in his early 40's, but he seemed much older. He wore a charcoal, double breasted pinstripe suit, a colorful tie, and patent leather wingtips. The ensemble was cut in a style reminiscent of the 30's yet with a modern sensibility. And except for his pale skin, Maxwell looked every bit a human being -- unless one took a real close look and noticed that he didn't do things like breathe. But Maxwell was anything but human. He was nothing more than an animated corpse -- a zombie -- who was too stubborn to stay dead. He'd been thrown back into the land of the living by the Dja-akh and decided he liked it here too much to ever go back. And now that he knew the mummies held the secret to immortality... well, why shouldn't he get in on that action too?

Maxwell had never been in a foreign country before (he didn't count liquor runs to Canada during Prohibition). He wandered along the docks for a while, out of place. While he didn't know where he was headed yet, it wasn't a good idea to hang around there in case the mummy he'd tangled with in Chicago had friends combing the area.

He lunged behind some crates as a pair of individuals approached. They walked with the cautious pace and alert movement of people searching for something. They'd seen him, but it looked like they hadn't identified who he was. The two crept toward his hiding place, whispering to one another and calling out it soft tones. Maxwell was startled to realize he recognized one of the words: "Amenti." Where had he heard that? Krycek. Just before he died, he said that's what he was. Maxwell was right; mummy fuckers did have people searching the area. Just his luck to stumble right on them.

He readied himself to attack, but paused when inspiration sprang forth in his mind. His deathsight showed these two were just a couple mortals. No danger of overpowering him. Even better, they worked for the mummies. They should know something about this whole ceremony business. Crossing their path was lucky indeed -- a couple hostages should take him where he had to go.

Maxwell dashed from his hiding place. He was upon them before they could process he wasn't the Amenti they were looking for. He grabbed the one on the right by the throat and lifted him a couple inches from the ground. He pointed his ruined left hand at the other one -- a stocky woman, he saw now that he was close enough -- and said, "Make a sound and I'll pop his head like a fucking grape."

Maxwell was on a roll. Looked like the woman spoke English. She nodded, eyes wide to watch her buddy struggle against Maxwell's iron grip. "You got transportation somewhere?"

The woman nodded.

"Great!" He shook the guy, well on his way to unconsciousness. "You do what I say and you'll live to tell your grandkids about it. You're going to take me to where you do your hocus-pocus. You know: 'Amenti,' right?"

Even in the dim light and with his atrophied eyesight, Maxwell say the woman grow pale. "No," she said, her voice but a squeak.

"Oh, yes," Maxwell replied. The straight razor appeared in his left hand as if by magic. Even missing his first two fingers, the weapon rested comfortably in his grip. The blade flicked out, an unnatural shimmer coursing along the metal as Maxwell pointed it at her. "You see this? Yea, you can feel it; I can tell. You know what it's like getting cut by this little beauty? You don't play nice, and you'll find out."

He tossed the man to the ground. The cultist collapsed, retching as he tried to suck down air. The woman crouched to help her friend.

"Now take me to your car and let's get the fuck out of here."

* * *

His directions to the cultists were simple enough: take him to their temple or ceremonial chamber or whatever they called it, and they had his word they'd live. Maxwell knew they had no reason to believe him, but he'd seen plenty of people who were quick to fool themselves. There was a chance he was telling the truth, or that they might have a chance to escape, or who really knew? Maxwell had a fair idea of what the future had in store for these two, but let them have their fantasies. Anything to make them easier to manage.

Even so, he figured his captives might try to get clever sooner or later. Maxwell considered forcing his will on the driver -- he'd already done so to confirm that they did, indeed, know of a ceremony that could bestow immortality. Maxwell was tempted to make him take them to wherever it was they need to go to perform it. Carpenter wasn't worried about inflicting brain damage on people. His concern was that they were harder to control afterwards. Unpredictable, like wires got crossed in their heads.

So instead of forcing his will, Maxwell remained in the back seat, a pistol -- conveniently found in the glove compartment -- pointed through the seat at the driver's spine. The cultists took the Ford Expedition down a major highway, a straight shot south paralleling the Suez Canal. Maxwell knew this due to the sporadic signs that had Arabic squiggles and English subtitles. Well-traveled roads suited Carpenter just fine. He had no idea where he was; his knowledge of Egyptian geography amounted to picturing a huge desert with a couple pyramids stuck in the middle. As long as they were on a major thoroughfare, Maxwell felt comfortable that the guy wasn't trying to pull a fast one.

They stopped off in the city of Ismailia, about an hour south of Port Said, and fueled up the Expedition. Maxwell kept a close eye on his two captives -- Ahmir and Sherin, he discovered were their names -- but they were quite well behaved. After leaving the gas station, they wound through a series of meandering streets until Maxwell realized Ahmir was just trying to waste time. Maxwell was irritated with himself for not figuring it out sooner. A quick nudge of his will and Maxwell discovered that the driver was trying to give him the runaround.

"Where is this hideout of yours?" Maxwell demanded, eye flaring with an unclean green light.

"Desert... It is hidden -- ruins," the cultist replied, sweat pouring off him.

"Does this look like the fucking desert?" Maxwell asked, more conversationally this time.

Ahmir stammered and shook his head, casting a panicked look at the woman. They both looked scared enough to play it straight. Maxwell shouldn't have to waste energy trying to control them. He pointed the pistol at Sherin, who was marginally more calm than her friend. "You. How many miles is it to get there?"

"Many miles," she nodded.

"Fucking Christ. How many? Huh? How far?

"Miles? Do not know miles. Is many kilometers. Uh... hundreds! Yes?"

This was like pulling teeth. "Alright, fine. Get us back on the goddamn road before you really piss me off. And don't try to pull this shit again."

The driver took them to a smaller highway continuing south that brought them to the city of Suez a couple hours later. Maxwell had them drive to overlook the Gulf of Suez and the marvel of engineering that was the canal. He was feeling good about his progress; he could afford to take some time out for sightseeing. He chuckled, spirits high, and hopped back in the Ford.

"So how did you find me so fast, anyway?" he asked after a while, more to break the monotony of travel than any real curiosity.

Sherin answered "We did not look for you."

"Did not look... If you weren't expecting me... were you even looking for the Heart?" The two cultists looked at one another in mild confusion, but Maxwell didn't catch any dawning enlightenment. Taking out his handkerchief, Maxwell extracted the Heart from his pocket. Holding it, he was certain it was significantly heavier than it had been before. That was odd; it didn't seem to pull on the line of his jacket any more than before. He took a closer look. Its texture, previously porous and rough like stone, now appeared smooth, marble-like. In fact, the Heart didn't even seem to have the same shape it had before. It was hard to say for certain. But he felt pretty sure there were differences.

Physical appearances aside, the Heart's psychic pulses continued much as they did before. Reduced to a faint tingle when in his pocket, the beats attained a steady, thudding rhythm when the Heart was in his hand. Maxwell felt that the pulses didn't occur in response to his holding it. They were probably going all the time; he just didn't feel them unless he held the Heart close. The sensation was at once soothing and unnerving.

Forcing himself not to squirm, Maxwell learned forward so his traveling companions could get a look at the Heart. "You telling me you never heard of this? How about Alex Krycek? Him and a bunch of his friends were pretty excited about this thing."

Their confusion seemed to increase when they glanced at the Heart, but Krycek's name caused a reaction. The guy barked, "Amenti? Alex Krycek-Nefarka?"

"Right, yeah. Amenti. You've heard of him, then."

The woman jabbered something fast in Arabic at her friend, and they were soon spitting words at each other and getting more excited by the second. Seemed they had a fair idea of what Maxwell was talking about now. He didn't like being left out of the dialogue, though. He shoved the Heart back in his pocket and called out to get their attention. It took a couple tries, and he finally had to wave the pistol between them, but the two finally shut up.

"What was that all about, huh? Looks like I struck a nerve. Oh, and now you're not talking?" He looked from one to the other. They stared out the front, watching the road with grim resolution. They might put on a brave face, but Maxwell could feel the outrage and fear radiating from them. Drinking in the emotions with relish, Maxwell decided to let it go for the time being. 'Just wait till I'm one of these Amenti, too. That will give them something to talk about.'

* * *

Every so often the road curved to the coast and gave them a glimpse of the Gulf of Suez, but otherwise desert stretched to infinity around them. Maxwell supposed you could hide a lot in such a huge expanse of nothing. He decided it'd be a good idea to have them point out the hideout's location on a map, just in case they tried something sneaky again or he had to dump them. Of course there was no map in the four wheel drive. It was mid-afternoon by the time they reached the next town.

It was some tourist kind of place near the beach. The gas station they pulled into wouldn't be out of place in America. Although Maxwell couldn't read anything except "GAS," he saw it had a small convenience shop that should have maps and the like. He got Ahmir and Sherin some water as he paid for the gas and the map.

The map had all of Egypt on one side and the Nile valley on the other. Maxwell laid it on the Expedition's hood, opened to the Egypt side. It was easy enough to find where they were, just as the start of where the Gulf of Suez curved in a final arc before the canal. There was a whole lot of country left, all of it colored a bland light gray except for the thin green ribbon down the center that was the Nile River. Plenty of places to hide a temple in all that desert, that was certain. Feeling a sudden delicious rush of fear, Maxwell cast a glance into the Expedition, where Ahmir and Sherin were looking at him -- no, at the map, and the man was speaking rapidly. Much as Maxwell enjoyed drinking in their renewed panic, he didn't like what he saw. They had the look of people caught in the act.

Maxwell crumpled the map in one hand and stalked over to yank open the driver's side door. He shoved the printed paper in Ahmir's face and growled, "Show me where your fucking temple is."

The guy was worked up, looking everywhere but at Maxwell and jabbering away. Maxwell had enough. He grabbed the cultist by the jaw and wrenched his head around. Looking him full in the face, Maxwell slammed him with his will and ordered him to calm down. Ahmir slumped in the seat like he'd been injected with a hefty dose of morphine.

"That's better," Maxwell said, maintaining eye contact. "Now, show me where your temple is on this map."

Ahmir groaned, but his hand flattened the map against the steering wheel and dragged in fits and jerks across it. Maxwell's anger before was nothing to the cold fury that possessed him when he saw where the finger stopped. The cultist was pointing to a place on the map about a hundred miles from their current location... a distinctive spot to the northeast, away from where they were currently headed.

"What; Cairo?" Cairo was a big city. But this guy had replied to the compulsion before that their temple was hidden in the desert. So somewhere around Cairo then. "Where exactly? What is the name of the place?"

The cultist shook his head, but couldn't resist the command. "Saqqara. Pyramid... Sanakht Nebka."

Maxwell saw, then. A red star on the map, indicating ruins. Saqqara, alright. No names of any pyramids, but how hard could it be find a pyramid? So then... "Where were you taking me instead? Huh? Tell me!"

Straining muscles relaxed, Ahmir had no trouble revealing this. "To the Imkhu. Horus, the elders... they shatter your bones to powder. Scatter remains to the four corners of the earth."

"Already been through that, buddy. Didn't take." Maxwell didn't need the editorializing; he got the point. He fought to stay calm. He still needed these people, needed whatever they knew about the Spell of Life. But he was done being nice. "Alright. You had your chance and you blew it. You will take me to the pyramid of Sanakht Nebka now."

Maxwell pushed the command with every ounce of his will. It hit the cultist like a physical blow, rock him back so his skull slammed against the headrest. All expression vanished from his face, his mouth hanging slack and eyes filming over. Maxwell climbed in the back, then handed the car keys forward. The cultist, moving in a determined yet clumsy motion, started up the car and pulled out onto the road.

Darkness came fast upon them as they drove, the sun dropping below the horizon despite their best efforts to catch it. Some gusts of wind poked at the Ford a couple times, then the sandstorm was upon them. A mountain of blackness that Maxwell had assumed was nothing more dangerous than nightfall swept in like the end of the world had come. Visibility was gone in a heartbeat. The SUV rocked on its heavy-duty suspension as blasts of wind savaged it left and right. Tons of sand dropped on them out of nowhere only to be swept away in the next instant.

As the sandstorm moaned and howled around them, Maxwell felt the thrill of unease. He recalled from his living days the tornado season in the Midwest, the savagery that could descend out of nowhere and go just as fast, leaving utter destruction in its wake. And during the interminable decades in the underworld, spirit-storms that arose out of nothing. Winds of chaos and oblivion that could shred a ghost to pieces in an instant. Undead he may be, but if they got in a wreck and he ended up with these two dead, he'd have a rough time getting resurrected as an immortal.

"It is early for khamsin," the woman said suddenly.

"What?"

"Khamsin -- sandstorm, yes?" Fear of the storm made her unusually forthcoming. "Winds... they come up in desert and go for many hours. Sometimes days. But not always so big so soon. So early in year."

Hours, maybe days, like this? Fuck. Only the insane or suicidal would keep going under such conditions. He tried to get Ahmir to stop, but the cultist was lost in the grip of compulsion. Maxwell could try another command, but that would probably burn out whatever was left of the fucker's mind.

Ahmir and storm took the decision out of his hands. The road took a curve, but with about six inches of visibility they didn't even know it until the Ford was thundering down a slope. The cultist remained aware enough beyond the scope of his orders that he'd shifted the vehicle into four-wheel drive when the sandstorm first hit. The Ford handled as well as it could over the shifting surface and went quite a ways before it hit a dune too steep to climb. As none of them wore seatbelts, the impact threw them forward. Maxwell bounced off the driver's seat and fell sideways onto the floor. Ahmir slammed into the steering wheel then ricocheted back into the seat, while the woman, Sherin, cracked her forehead against the dashboard.

Maxwell was embarrassed, but uninjured. His captives were dazed, and while the woman shook it off after a minute, the driver slumped into unconsciousness. Maxwell figured that was all for the best. He reached forward, put the car in park, shut off the engine and flicked off the lights to save the battery. Darkness engulfed them, gray swirls of sand moving around them in the night, the only sounds the moaning wind. After she got her bearings, the woman checked on her friend and then shot a look at Maxwell. He couldn't see her face clearly enough to read her expression, and simply said, "We wait."

* * *

Maxwell wondered if the sandstorm was a sign. Halfway to this Saqqara place and they get a whole desert dumped on their heads? Thinking about it, he'd suffered one setback after another ever since he took possession of the Heart. Not all on the same scale, of course. But if Maxwell was the superstitious sort, he might have thought there was something more at work here than mere coincidence.

Whatever the case, the sandstorm did nothing more than cause a delay. It continued blowing for a number of hours. After securing his captives with belts and scarves, Maxwell took advantage of the time by dropping into a slumber. When he roused himself six hours later, the night was clear and still. Ahmir and Sherin were asleep -- though the man looked like he hadn't come to since ramming the dune.

Maxwell saw the Ford was about half-buried in sand. He got out On the passenger side and scrambled up to the top of the dune they'd run into. It rose over ten feet above the vehicle, and from atop it he had a decent view of the area. Stars shone down with brilliant clarity over the desert. There wasn't a hint of wind; aside from the dark shape of the Expedition poking out of the sand dune, Maxwell wouldn't have believed there ever was a sandstorm. He didn't see the road, but it couldn't be far. After sliding back down, he looked the Ford over carefully. It was pretty well stuck, but he was unwilling to just leave it there. The alternative was hitchhiking, and he didn't think that would work too well.

He took one more look at the SUV. Sand had swept up on the driver's side and the front was buried about a third of the way up the hood in the sand dune. He could get it out, but he'd have to do some digging first. That was alright. Maxwell was used to doing things for himself.

He stripped down to his undershirt and slacks and spent a few hours shoveling sand. It was still dark, dawn maybe an hour or so away, when he felt ready to get going. He started toward the car door when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Reaction took over. Maxwell had the pistol out and was firing before he fully registered what the target was. He trudged over, his deathsight having as much trouble making out what it was as his normal vision did. Once he saw the victim, he couldn't help but laugh. He'd blown away a baby zombie.

It was, indeed, the corpse of a child, maybe ten years old. The little zombie must have been drawn to Maxwell just like the walking dead he'd run into back in Chicago. He thought about the corpses he'd collected to aid him in the States. He'd taken advantage of coincidence then, the happy accident that these creatures gathered near him when he had need of some extra muscle.

But what if it wasn't coincidence? Perhaps his subconscious was tapping into some new way of using his mental compulsion, but focused on his fellow walking dead. Maxwell shrugged. What would it hurt to try?

As he walked back to the Ford, Maxwell focused his thoughts, calling out with his mind as hard as he could. He'd been able to boss around the animated dead with nothing more than strong mental commands. Perhaps he could also draw them to him in force doing the same thing. He didn't expect them to pop out of the ground, but perhaps some would show up in time to do him some good.

Maxwell was in better spirits as he stepped up to the car. After securing his captives in the back seat, and much grinding of gears and swearing, he finally got the Ford moving. He stayed in reverse all the way up the slope, then turned on a fairly level patch and headed northeast. Maxwell wasn't sure which way the road had curved during the storm, but if they didn't hit it going cross-country they should still run into the Nile sooner or later. His luck was up and running again, for they crossed the sand covered asphalt only a few minutes later. Within another hour, the desert turned to green. Coming over a rise, Maxwell saw the Nile stretched before him. He referred to the torn map as he drove, and saw that Saqqara should be just to the other side of the river and north a few miles. Almost there, he thought.

* * *

Saqqara was on a plateau that rose above the surrounding desert. Maxwell pulled the Expedition off the main road toward a ticket booth situated at the bottom of the plateau. He thought it was silly to pay for a tour when you could just walk in off the desert, but hey. He continued up and shortly reached the ruins. He was surprised at how expansive they were. A large blocky step pyramid was the focal point, with an enormous walled enclosure running around it, complete with a number of unearthed buildings. There were squat blocky shapes to either side of the central complex, more substantial than the buildings but not approaching the step pyramid in scale. Numerous low structures excavated to varying degrees wandered to the north. The Step Pyramid of Djoser easily dominated the site. Huge and weathered, its once crisp six steps had been eroded by time, giving it the appearance of a melted layer cake. Even so, the sight was impressive, especially when Maxwell spied the Great Pyramids of Giza off to the north. He wasn't sure he could trust his weak eyes, but Sherin gave grudging confirmation that the ancient wonder was, indeed, but ten miles away.

Maxwell put the Ford in gear and steered around the first tour bus of the morning, currently disgorging a small group of old men and women. Some pointed questions to Sherin had informed Maxwell that the temple, the so-called Pyramid of Sanakht Nebka, was actually west of the Djoser complex. It was part of a new excavation site. Driving around with a plume of dust in their wake, Maxwell saw an adjoining plateau with some marker boundaries denoting an archaeological dig. He didn't see any pyramid, just a lot of sand and a couple half-buried buildings. Drawing closer, Maxwell realized his deathsight was picking up a ghostly shimmer through the area, a spiritual vibration that was starting to interfere with his vision.

An armed guard stood near the trail and waved them down. Maxwell rolled down the window and smiled as the man approached. He was too close to success to bother with this idiot. As the guard opened his mouth, Maxwell said, "Forget we were ever here," and pushed hard. The man blinked hard a few times, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for breath. As Maxwell drove on, he noted in the rearview mirror that the guard was still standing there, looking around in mild confusion. Feeling a brief wave of dizziness, Maxwell realized abusing his ability in this fashion was taking its toll.

The track dipped through a depression that separated the Djoser complex from the new excavation site and came around to an ad hoc parking lot. The spot was nearest a few low buildings, apparently unearthed only recently. The plateau continued to slope upward from that point. Two other vehicles were already there; Maxwell pulled up next to a twenty year old BMW and cut the engine. He glanced in back; the woman had the broken look of someone who's committed the ultimate betrayal and now waits for judgment to be passed upon her. Maxwell couldn't see the man, but assumed he was still comatose. He had some more questions for Sherin about this place, but wanted to wait until he gave it a once over himself.

That opportunity didn't come. He was still looking around from the comfort of the Expedition when he spotted movement in the rearview mirror. A slight Asian woman had emerged from one of the partially excavated buildings and was headed his way. He wasn't concerned; this was the cultists' car to begin with, so they belonged, as far as anyone knew. Looking back through the window, Maxwell's deathsight showed the vibrant spirit of a mummy. "Son of a bitch."

The cultist in the back seat turned as well and started shouting as soon as she saw the Asian lady. Maxwell tried to shut her up, but she wasn't facing him, so his force of will was useless. The mummy heard the yelling and slowed to a stop, reaching into a satchel she carried slung over her shoulder.

Maxwell popped the door open and sprinted toward the mummy. Her head snapped around at the sound and her eyes grew wide. She cried out something in Chinese that sounded suspiciously like it ended in his name. "Stop!" he yelled, slamming his will toward her and hoping she understood him. The command held only for a second, but that was all Maxwell needed. He caught her with a right hook that cracked her jaw and sent her sprawling in a heap. Maxwell checked to make sure she was out before taking off her satchel and throwing it as hard as he could. Then he untied Sherin and dragged her over. "Help her up," he directed, hustling them both in the building the Asian lady had just come through.

Straight razor in one hand and Sig-Sauer in the other, the Heart of Osiris pulsing quietly in his pocket, James Maxwell entered the lost pyramid of Sanakht Nebka.


	5. Forging Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See warnings and disclaimers in part 1

After Ibrahim revealed he'd brought the ruined compass scarab to Egypt, Alex's mind was afire with possibility. He headed for the workshop Basel Nyambek-Senemut had set up in the Mausoleum of al-Qalarayn and began work on a new tracking amulet.

Alex felt the pressure of time like a physical weight. The longer the Heart of Osiris was loose in the world, the greater the possibility of disaster. There was no danger Maxwell could somehow harness the artifact's power to be resurrected as a mummy. The Heart had nothing to do with that closely guarded treasure, the Spell of Life. And just as he couldn't use the Heart to become immortal, there was no way that James Maxwell would find anyone willing to perform the resurrection ceremony.

No, Alex's greatest fear was that the Heart might fall into the hands of a threat far greater than a single zombie. The Followers of Set and the Bane mummies alike could perform the most terrible acts should they gain possession of the ab-Asar. As a conduit to Osiris, the Heart offered inestimable power to those who could discover the means to tap into it properly. That power could be twisted to any number of depraved ends. Beyond that, some among the Amenti believed it might be possible to use the Heart -- or any of Osiris' scattered body parts -- to harm the god himself. Eternal Osiris could not be destroyed, but it was possible the enemy could inflict upon him incalculable agony should they capture the Heart.

Yet the limitations that made the deity vulnerable to the dread Apepnu offered Alex the key to recover the Heart. The energy that flowed from the ab-Asar found its source in the Lord of Life. If Alex could only get a new compass scarab working, he could trace that energy back to the Heart itself.

He spent a solid week working on a new compass scarab, pausing only to eat hasty meals and nap a few hours at a stretch. Ibrahim, Faruq and John took turns bringing him food and drink and shoving him onto a cot when he'd been at the workbench for too long. As Alex was busy in Basel's workshop, the two cultists put feelers out for anything unusual that could be linked to Maxwell or the Heart of Osiris. Alex also kept in touch with other mummy groups through Lu Wen Khutenptah, an associate of the Cult of Isis, the group most closely involved with performing the resurrection ceremony that created new mummies. It wasn't a perfect arrangement, but until Alex got a new compass scarab working, it was the best they had to work with.

* * *

Alex pushed away from the workbench, cursing in frustration. He'd done some of his best work in the art of meket -- amulet creation -- in the past week. But despite his efforts, he met with failure. He'd already created one new compass scarab, but it had proven ineffective. This second attempt was almost complete; within a day or so he should have it. Unvoiced was his fear that there wouldn't be sufficient residue after the first two attempts for a third to have a chance. He had no choice but to make this second one work.

He glanced over at the first replacement, discarded next to the ruined original on a table of scrap metal and other oddments. The workshop was one of the largest chambers in the complex carved under Cairo's southern cemetery. Equipment both modern and arcane was scattered across the various tables and poked from half-open drawers. The table Alex worked at had a lighted magnifier lens on a swivel arm attached to one corner, with a full set of jeweler's tools in an open metal case within convenient reach. Bits of copper, silver wire and other precious metal odds and ends were swept to one side for later cleanup. Sitting on a rubberized mat before him was a sleek curved bracelet, a stylized gold and jade scarab attached to the top of the curve. It looked nice, but still wasn't functional. Alex sighed and leaned forward on his elbows, putting his eye to the magnifier lens and taking another look at the compass scarab.

* * *

John entered the workroom quietly, slipped behind Alex and wrapped his arms around him.

"Time for a break."

Alex turned and embraced John, just enjoying the feel of the other man's body. "You have something particular in mind?"

A low chuckle was his answer. "Not really. But I do want to talk to you about somethin."

Alex pulled away. "This sounds serious. Is everything okay?"

John nodded. "Yea; I've... I've just been havin these dreams -- about us -- but not us. Oh, hell..." He strode over to the cot and sat down, cradling his head in his hands.

Alex joined him. "You were dreaming about our first lives, right?"

"I guess so. We were in some kind of temple."

"John..." Alex reached over and raised John's chin so he was facing him. "We've always been together. Our souls are joined, and no matter what, we always end up finding each other again. I believe Lord Osiris has done this for a purpose only he understands. I don't have any other explanation for it."

"That makes as much sense as anything. Not that I'm complaining, you know."

Alex smiled, then leaned forward to kiss John soundly. "I know," he said breathlessly. "And as much as I'd like to continue this, I have to keep working on that damned compass scarab."

* * *

John looked at the amulet. "It still doesn't work?"

"I've been at it night and day and pffft! Nothing," Alex griped. "Structurally, it's sound. I can feel the enchantment, but it just sits there. No indication that it's picking up anything."

"Just like your first attempt," John noted.

Alex shot a dirty look at the first replacement. Like the one on the table in front of him, that bracelet was a marvel of simple elegance that tracked the Heart's mystic resonance from the residue infused to its design. Or so it went in theory. Neither one showed the slightest inclination to work. Alex blinked, something striking him as odd. "I'll be damned."

"What?"

"Look." Alex pointed at the side table.

The complex underneath the Mausoleum of al-Qalarayn was as well ventilated as Basel had been able to make. Even so, by nature of the desert climate and stone construction, dust and sand were impossible to keep out. Alex kept his work space brushed clean, but didn't wipe down the whole room. The nearby scrap table had a thin film of grit... which showed a pair of needle thin lines that ran about three inches to the edge of the first replacement compass scarab. The amulet was fashioned as a U-shaped bracelet; the open end slipped over the wrist with the sleek scarab on top rotating like a compass to track the Heart's position. The two ends of the U matched up with the pair of lines in the yellow dust on the table.

Alex snatched up the replacement and slipped it onto his wrist and laughed. "It's responding, John! It's weak, but I can sense a connection." He scrutinized the amulet further and determined that the replacement compass scarab functioned at a greatly reduced range from the original. He hadn't expected it to operated with the same strength as the original, but it seemed it was even weaker than his calculations suggested. "The first one I made could track the Heart up to half a world away. It's hard to tell distances with this one... at a guess, I'd say maybe five hundred miles?"

"Can you tell where the Heart is?

"Damn, it's here, not far at all. Somewhere in Lower Egypt." He looked at the marks on the table. "Look, you can see from the marks in the dust, right? Must've come in... let's see, north is that way... north-northeast. And see how it dragged in a slight curve to the east? From how the amulet feels, it's somewhere to the east now. Still can't say how far away, though."

"What now?"

"Now, we wake Ibrahim and Faruq and prepare to get the Heart back."

* * *

The four men were seated in the open-air courtyard sipping tea and going over plans when they were joined by an unexpected visitor. Xian -- Lu Wen Khutenptah's dragon -- swooped down and lighted on Alex's arm.

"Where's Lu Wen?" he asked.

Xian minced along Alex's arm, its needle sharp talons digging into his skin. Alex ignored the discomfort as best he could. The dragon was agitated, which meant something was wrong with his creator. Smart as the enchanted creature was, it couldn't speak, so Alex interrogated it with simple "yes/no" questions.

"Is Lu Wen alright?" This got the creature even more worked up; Alex took that to mean she was in trouble, but Xian didn't know how much. "Is she at the lost pyramid?" This got a decisive nod. Alex didn't need to frame another question. Realization hit him head on. He checked the compass scarab. He couldn't tell how far the Heart was, but there was no mistaking the direction the compass pointed -- almost due south -- the direction of Saqqara, and of the pyramid of Sanakht Nebka.

* * *


	6. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See warnings and disclaimers in part 1

Maxwell found the spiritual dissonance increased as they made their way down a tunnel carved under the desert. The barrier separating the realms of the living and the dead was very thin here. Maxwell thought he could almost reach out and tear aside the fabric of reality and step through to the shadowlands. But he was here to do the opposite. He searched for immortality, so that he would never again face the chilling realm of the underworld.

The cultist shuffled along in front of him, half-carrying, half-dragging the mummy. The tunnel headed down at a steady angle for a couple hundred feet or so. Lights spaced evenly down the length provided adequate illumination. At last they turned a corner; the tunnel opened onto what looked like a long antechamber. Two men -- one white, one Arabic -- were brushing the dirt from a mural along one wall. Identical expressions of shock and dismay appeared on their faces as they took in Maxwell and his captives. "Hey there, you sorry sons of bitches," he said with a grin. "Feel up to a little hocus pocus?"

Some shouting and feeble efforts at resistance followed. Two more cultists rushed through the doorway in the wall opposite the mural, but numbers made no real difference. Maxwell had the physical advantage of power and the psychological edge of having just kicked the ass of their mummy friend. He herded the five cultists back through the doorway into what turned out to be some kind of burial chamber.

He understood that he was inside the pyramid of Sanakht Nebka, buried underneath a whole lot of sand. It looked like this chamber was the main room in the place. It was sizable, almost thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide, with a ceiling twelve feet high. It had a series of small alcoves running down each of the long sides, with statues in six of the alcoves. An alabaster sarcophagus dominated the chamber's center. The room had two entrances -- the doorway they'd just come through and a central shaft that went all the way to the top. From the look of the shaft, the pyramid wasn't completely buried. He could see a brilliant blue rectangle of sky three hundred feet up.

Seeing some toolboxes to one side, Maxwell laughed. He snatched up a roll of duct tape and directed a couple of cultists to wrap up the mummy. Even if she was as strong as Maxwell, she'd have a tough time getting free of the tape that wrapped her arms and legs. And with a strip of tape for a gag, she wouldn't be raising a ruckus with sudden commands.

She was just coming to when he dragged her to a corner just inside the burial chamber. He smiled and patted her on the head, then moved to stand behind the sarcophagus by the exit. The cultists were gathered at the opposite end of the burial chamber. Aside from staring at Maxwell or Lu Wen, all they did was stand there and tremble.

"How many of you speak English?" Maxwell asked. Sherin, of course; only the white guy raised his hand. From the blank stares the others gave him, Maxwell felt confident they weren't faking. To the man and woman he said, "Cooperate and I'll let you walk out of here. Got that?"

He was telling the truth; he didn't care about these people as long as they could give him what he wanted. From the looks on their faces, the cultists didn't believe a word he was saying. No problem; if he couldn't coerce the information, he'd just force it out of them. Try the easy way first, at least. He reached in his pocket and slapped a bound object on the center of the sarcophagus.

"You know what this is?" he asked, flipping away the cloth from around the bundle. Exposed to the halogen lights hung in the chamber, the Heart of Osiris was a roughly pear-shaped object with a red cast to it so dark it was almost black. Again, it had a different appearance from before. Maxwell suppressed a shudder and tapped the sarcophagus lid next to the Heart. "See this? Huh? Take a good look."

There was a collective intake of breath. Maxwell looked over at the mummy. Her eyes flickered between Maxwell and the artifact, a mix of emotions scampering across her face.

The white guy stepped forward, swearing at Maxwell as he grabbed for the artifact. Maxwell backhanded him, slamming him into one of the alcove walls. "Cut that shit out," Maxwell said. "Time to get down to business. So, you going to tell me how this thing can make me immortal?"

Sherin seemed to have forgotten she knew English. Sure, now that she was with friends she'd found her backbone again. She picked up where the white guy left off, firing Arabic swear words and getting her pals all riled up.

Maxwell slammed a hand on the sarcophagus lid with a hard crack that silenced everyone. Pointing a finger at the woman, he focused his will and demanded, "Can you tell me how to do a ceremony that can make people immortal?"

Sherin gurgled and spat, then said, "Yes."

Green light flared in Maxwell's eye. "Alright, then. What's the first step?"

* * *

Alex and John went through the main chamber, down a tunnel to a smaller room that looked like it was set aside for storage. The room contained unlabeled boxes and half-open wardrobes with clothing. Alex removed a shotgun, and an automatic pistol with one extra clip. He and John wouldn't need weapons; Ibrahim was another matter.

They all met up in the main chamber.

Alex handed out the guns, then said, "If everyone's ready, let's hit the road."

* * *

Maxwell felt the presence of the first zombie just as he began extracting the resurrection ceremony from Sherin. Turning to face the doorway, Maxwell saw an animated horror, its bony fingers scraping at the stone wall as it shuffled in.

Maxwell felt nausea in his atrophied stomach even as a smile drew across his face. The creature stopped a few feet away and did a sloppy job of clicking its heels together, one arm shooting out stiffly before it. Looking closer, Maxwell saw the zombie wore the remains of a German military uniform. Maxwell was dead when World War II started, and he ran across a few restless spirits in the underworld who'd died during the fighting. It took a minute, but he recalled that there was a whole theatre of battle in northern Africa. Maxwell wasn't sure he wanted some Nazi helping him out, dead or otherwise. Still, he didn't exactly have much else to work with.

The zombie was in surprisingly good condition, especially considering how long he'd been dead. Though not as whole as Maxwell, the soldier was merely gamey instead of full on decayed. Still, he could follow orders.

"Okay, Fritz. Why don't you wait out by the tunnel entrance and keep watch? Make sure nobody tries to jump us. Oh, and knock out all the lights in the tunnel when you go, too."

The soldier shuffled off after another salute. Maxwell was just continuing the arduous process of extracting information from Sherin when two more animated corpses showed up. Each of these was so far gone it was almost impossible to determine what they'd been in life. Didn't matter; they were more muscle and would help keep the cultists under wraps as Maxwell got deeper into things. As he had them move into position -- one to stand by Lu Wen and the other with the cultists -- Maxwell realized he didn't have to speak his orders; a focused thought did the trick. He still had no idea why the walking dead were drawn to him, and there was no telling how many more animated corpses would show up if he were to stay put. For now, three should be enough.

* * *

Alex clutched the door handle as Ibrahim drove the Audi with a recklessness remarkable even for Cairene drivers. Faruq stayed behind to contact any other groups he could reach. If Alex failed to recover the Heart, forces would be converging on Saqqara by nightfall. The Amenti would recover the Heart one way or another.

John sat in the backseat with a cooler stocked with bottled water. It smacked into him as it slid with each one of the car's sudden twists and turns. As far as Alex could tell from reading the replacement compass scarab, the Heart hadn't moved in some time. Whatever Maxwell was doing, he should still be in Saqqara by the time they arrived. The ruins were only fifteen miles south of the city, and the way Ibrahim was driving they should reach it in as many minutes... if the Audi didn't get wrecked on the way.

Despite the air conditioner's best efforts, the Audi was a sauna. Alex was glad he'd used henna that morning to paint symbols on his and John's left biceps that protected them from the oppressive heat. The charm was temporary, lasting no more than a week, but it should be enough to keep them from collapsing due to dehydration and sunstroke. Alex shot a look at Ibrahim, who drove with fevered intensity. The amulets he wore -- gifts from Alex -- caught the sun in brief flashes as the Audi caromed down the road. The charms would offer Ibrahim some protection against harm and bestow enhanced reflexes. Alex had also cautioned him repeatedly not to be a hero; he suspected such words fell on deaf ears. He had to hope that the amulets were enough to keep his mortal friend alive in any conflict to come.

The drive settled down somewhat when they broke free of the tangle of city traffic. The Audi roared onto a southbound road that took them past the Great Pyramids at Giza. Saqqara was only minutes away.

* * *

Maxwell knew things would go wrong sooner or later. The white guy mumbled something in Arabic to his buddies while Maxwell was pulling information from Sherin. A second later they'd all pulled knives and attacked. Maxwell realized almost immediately that the aggression was a feint. As three of the cultists came at Maxwell and his zombies, the fourth drew his blade across the woman cultist's, then tore the blade across his own neck.

By the time things were calm again only two cultists remained alive... and neither of them spoke English. "Zealous bunch of idiots," Maxwell said, his voice a mixture of disgust and respect. He wouldn't get anything out the cultists, and he couldn't make them do anything if they didn't understand him. But there was still the mummy.

As he took the straight razor from his pocket, a smile blossomed on Maxwell's face. Hefting the Heart, he turned to Lu Wen, still bound and gagged in the corner. "I know you understand me," he said, readying his will. "Looks like I'm not going to get the blow-by-blow on this Spell of Life thing. Can just two of these guys do it?"

Forced by the compulsion, Lu Wen gave a grudging nod.

"Alright then, since I can't order these guys to do it, let's try some old fashioned persuasion instead."

Maxwell placed the Heart on the sarcophagus. After flicking the razor open, he dragged the glittering blade across the artifact. Smoke curled up as the unnatural metal scored the Heart's surface, and few thick drops of some golden fluid welled up in the cut. At the same time, a tremor shook the room, a faint shower of grit falling from the ceiling. The cultists cried out in dismay and clutched one another while the mummy Lu Wen screamed through her gag and strained against the duct tape binding her. Maxwell looked over at her. "That was just a scratch. Unless you want to see what happens if I really slice into it, I suggest you order these guys to deal straight with me."

Palpable hatred burned in Lu Wen's eyes, then her gaze dropped to the wounded Heart. She nodded, her head moving the barest fraction.

* * *

Alex turned around to face John. "We have to figure out an approach. You see around there, past the Djoser ruins? Couple of cars and some fresh excavations. That's the tunnel entrance to Nebka's tomb. I can confirm the Heart's about two or three hundred feet to the north, which should put it right inside the lost pyramid."

"Is there any other way in?" John asked.

"A ventilation shaft that goes straight down to the burial chamber."

"How far is that?"

"About three hundred feet."

"Okay, so only one way in or out, practically speaking."

"Unless we need to get in there fast," Alex confirmed. "I can go down the shaft, but I'll knock down a bunch of dirt and sand as I go. Big giveaway."

"So..." John broke off what he was going to say as they pulled up next to a guard watching the approach to the excavation site. "Looks like he's havin some kind of fit."

Alex leaned over to the driver's side to get a decent look. The guard was looking right at them, but it was obvious he didn't actually see anything. His eyes were wide open with a washed out, filmy look. Salty tracks of dried tears coursed down his cheeks, and his mouth fluttered like he couldn't think of what to say.

Realizing they could do nothing for the guard, the three men continued on.

* * *

Maxwell looked down at Lu Wen. "You care to repeat that?"

The mummy sat as straight as she could, bound as she was. Maxwell had removed the duct tape from her mouth so she could instruct the two remaining cultists. Instead, she'd started in on some crazed attempt to talk Maxwell into surrendering.

"Stop this now," Lu Wen said. "You cannot hope to succeed. Even if you somehow learn the Spell of Life, your soul will not survive judgment. Your spirit will be destroyed by the Judges of Ma'at, your existence ended. We care only about the Heart. Leave it whole and depart immediately, and you may yet survive for some time, even if only in the awful parody of life you now suffer."

"You know what I've been through to get here, honey? I can't begin to tell you all the shit I've had to deal with. But I'm supposed to drop everything and walk away on your say so? You got some nerve, I'll grant you that. But if you don't cut the shit and get these guys to work, I'll have Fritz start slicing your precious Heart into lunch meat." Maxwell had brought the Nazi corpse down since it was the most self-aware of his charges.

"You would do nothing more than assure your own destruction," Lu Wen countered.

Maxwell felt the heat of anger steal over him. "Yeah? Maybe I should have Fritz practice on you a bit first, then."

"Perhaps you don't truly grasp what it means to be immortal. Threats such as yours mean nothing to someone for whom death has no meaning."

"I got a million ideas on how to kill someone. Love to try 'em out on you." Maxwell's lip curled at barely contained anger. "You don't think death has meaning? Spend some time with me."

"What can you do? You are nothing more than a corpse that is too stubborn to lie still." Lu Wen gave Maxwell a cold look. "You have no chance of succeeding in this. Even now our forces are converging. My brethren will take the Heart of Osiris back to the realm where you belong. Every second you stand here, you come that much closer to destruction."

"You better be sure you do the job right, lady. Cause if you don't, you can damn well bet I will never rest until I track your ass down."

"I have given you fair warning," she said. Then, after taking a deep breath, Lu Wen barked something in an ancient tongue. Another tremor went through the chamber, this one not as strong as when Maxwell wounded the Heart. Maxwell's weak eyes almost didn't catch the sudden motion in time to dodge as one of the statues leapt from the alcove and swung its staff at him. He saw all six of the statues were moving, in fact. What the hell are these things? No time to worry about it. He commanded Fritz and the other zombie to attack while he went for the mummy.

But she was already getting free, another of the statues cutting away the tape that bound her. Maxwell reached for the pistol to drop her fast when something whipped past him. It was his other zombie's head. Two of the statues had chopped it to pieces in a few seconds. Maxwell glanced around and saw that Fritz was accounting for himself well enough, thanks to the razor. Then he saw the last statue was moving for the Heart as his compatriot beat Fritz back toward one of the alcoves.

Everything's going to shit again! His clever plans dashed, just when he'd been so close. Lightning quick, Maxwell grabbed the Heart and ran for the doorway.

* * *

Alex looked at the tunnel entrance with a frown of frustration. They'd parked the Audi as close to the tunnel as they felt comfortable, then sat inside with the windows rolled down. "I agree that it'd be a bad idea to just go charging in Ibrahim, but do you have any reason why? If it's just Maxwell, I'd assume he's with the Heart. By my reckoning, it's still in the burial chamber."

"Remember when we met the devil Maxwell in Chicago," Ibrahim asked. "By that building?"

"The Sears Tower? Shit, that's right." He looked back at John. "That's where Maxwell jumped us and stole the Heart. He had four or five animated corpses in a truck with him."

"So he might have some here, too," John said.

"For all I know the prick has a dozen walking corpses hidden around here just waiting for us to show up."

Just then something black streaked through the passenger side window. Xian ran around Alex and Ibrahim's laps, making odd croaking noises and fluttering its wings.

"Where's he been?" John wondered.

"I think he's been keeping an eye on Lu Wen from the ventilation shaft." From Xian's loud squawk, it appeared Alex was correct. "Considering how he's acting, I'm guessing something bad is going down. That means end of planning. Let's go."

They piled out of the Audi and headed for the tunnel, Xian shooting into the air in a fast arc as they went. Alex dug something out of his pocket and tossed it ahead of them. Channeling the vibrant energy of his spirit, he muttered a command. The carving swelled and gained substance, and Sherlock crouched before them. Alex sprinted for the capstone, calling over his shoulder to John and Ibrahim, "Take Sherlock with you. Just make sure you stay out of his way!"

* * *

Maxwell felt the Heart throbbing in his grasp and oozing that same odd, bright substance. Lu Wen stood in the doorway, murmuring something as she grabbed a charm from her necklace.

Fury rose in Maxwell. He summoned forth all the power at his disposal. Dark forces coursed through his soul, bloating him like a tick. His spirit shrieked for retribution -- on the creature before him, on anyone that would stand in his way. He would not be denied success when he was so close! He cast the energy outward, searching for anyone, anything that would help him achieve his victory.

The charm in Lu Wen's hand had grown into a glittering katana. "Your time here is done," she said, swinging the blade in a few deadly practice cuts. He sensed four of the statues moving in position to attack him as well.

"Not quite yet," Maxwell said just before the alcove walls exploded inward and a sea of undead surged forth.

* * *

John and Ibrahim charged into the tunnel at full speed, Sherlock loping beside them. A zombie popped out of the darkness, lunging for the attack. John planted himself in a defensive stance, but suddenly there was no target. Sherlock had leaped forward and clamped its jaws around the zombie's upper thigh. Still running forward, the mastiff shook his head from side to side and smashed the animated corpse repeatedly into the tunnel wall. The zombie came apart after a few good hits and lay twitching for a moment before the dog dropped it.

The two men were staring at the remains when the ground shook and dozens of skeletal figures started erupting from the desert sand.

* * *

Alex reached the capstone, pulled free and set to one side to reveal the rectangular gap of the ventilation shaft. An inhuman chorus of shrieks echoed up from below.

Xian flew down the shaft and came back out a few seconds later, cawing wildly. Alex took that to mean things weren't going well down there. Drawing upon the amulet of Selket, Alex had the agility of a scorpion. He took a deep breath and leaped into the shaft, bracing his arms and legs on the sides and skittering down at breakneck speed.

* * *

Maxwell wasn't sure what he'd done, but was nonetheless pleased with the results. The things that boiled from the earth were animated corpses, and he knew he'd somehow called them forth. He could see the weak life force flickering within them, barely enough to animate their long dead bodies. There was something familiar about that energy, though...

He looked down at the thing pulsing in his hand, a film of golden fluid covering his fingers. He could feel the vast depths of power at his command. He sensed the secret of its control was just on the tip of his tongue. Maxwell could taste it, so close...

The blow shattered his left arm and broke most of his ribs as he slammed into a wall. Even as he drew on the Heart to heal his injuries, further blows, powerful enough to pulverize stone, rained on him. Maxwell found he couldn't react, his senses were too diffuse, his attention being sucked back to the Heart. Crying out in frustration and agony, he flung away the artifact. In an instant his perceptions snapped back into himself. Alex Krycek stood above him, just turning to see the Heart of Osiris vanish amid the horde of animated corpses. Maxwell took advantage of the moment's distraction and flung himself through the doorway.

Although he broke the connection with the Heart, Maxwell still sensed the energy flowing into the creatures he'd summoned. The things piled on Krycek, the other mummy and her statues, and fought with furious intensity. The power was waning fast, but if he hurried he might take advantage of the distraction to reach freedom. He sprinted up the tunnel, shoving his way through dozens more zombies, then burst out into the desert. Hundreds more undead rioted on the plateau around him. He had to go, had to run now. But then someone was before him, a man dressed in jeans with blood trickling down his face. The energy surrounding him told Maxwell he was a mummy.

"Goin somewhere, you son of a bitch?" John Doggett asked.

* * *

Alex lost it when he saw James Maxwell standing with the Heart of Osiris in his hand while dozens upon dozens of corpses tore at Lu Wen, a pair of hapless cultists and some guardian statues. Seized by the red haze of vengeance, his ka spirit wrapped around him like a protective cloak, Alex dropped from the ventilation shaft and charged Maxwell. Calling upon the full strength of his amulets, Alex smashed the zombie to the ground. Animated corpses grabbed at him, but he tossed them aside. Dead hands clutched at his arms and legs, ripping and pulling at him. His ka twisted the threads of fate just enough so that he slipped through their grasp and fell upon Maxwell.

A twinge on his arm shook Alex. A dim part of his consciousness realized the compass scarab registered sudden movement by the Heart.

Following the amulet's tremors, Alex plowed into a mass of corpses. One of the creatures, more substantial than the others and wearing some kind of soldier's uniform, snatched up the Heart. Alex was on it before it could move a step. He battered the thing into the wall, fists striking so hard they punched through flesh and bone and cracked against the tomb. A dozen more corpses jumped him then, their determination and numbers overwhelming his spirit's subtle protective aura. Alex clutched the Heart close to his chest as he struggled against the undead. Adrenaline slammed through him as he labored to tear the creatures off. As he cast aside the last of the corpses, Alex was surprised to see a semblance of peace had returned to the rest of the chamber. Lu Wen was covered in blood on the other side of the tomb, looking around in dazed wonder at the piles of bodies.

Alex stripped off his torn, bloody shirt and found a relatively clean spot with which to wrap the Heart of Osiris. He stepped under the ventilation shaft, the noonday sun spearing down and illuminating the Heart. Alex looked down upon the ab-Asar, a smile growing on his face. At last, he thought. Home and safe at last.

* * *

Maxwell stood before John, outlined in sharp relief. He could see every wound he'd suffered like it was some kind of diagram; he understood the severity of each, and how much he might injure him by striking each one in a certain way. Yet even as he looked, the options decreased steadily -- the prick was healing himself. He had to move before he could become whole again.

"Don't make this hard, Maxwell. You've caused too much pain, ruined too many lives, for this to end any other way than it's goin to," Doggett said, circling left, away from the razor he held.

Doggett could hear the staccato clatter of Ibrahim's assault rifle, as well as the occasional growl of Sherlock. The zombies were swarming all over, but for some reason they left John and Maxwell alone. That was good. Maxwell required his complete attention. John watched him like a hawk, all the variables laid out before him.

His left hand smashed into the side of Maxwell's head. He saw his feint and counterstrike, knew he could spin around and catch him from the side. But as he turned, John saw the oil slick flash and knew he hadn't moved fast enough. Cold fire burned down the side of his face, a pain more horrible than anything he could encompass. The razor blade tore down next to his left eye, through his cheek and out the side of his jaw. Incredible as the pain was, more terrible was the damage to the core of his soul.

He saw Maxwell's cold grin, misshapen where his strike had smashed in the side of his head. Falling, blood coursing warm down his front, John saw the shimmering black rainbow of the blade he flicked up for another strike.

Anger as blazing hot as the cold pain within him surged to life. Defying the inevitable, denying the agony he felt, John lunged as the razor swept down. His right hand grabbed Maxwell's wrist and twisted around. Crying out in equal parts torment and triumph, John jerked the hand across. The blade cut deep and clean, slashing Maxwell's head from his body.

"See you in hell," John whispered as he collapsed beside him.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See warnings and disclaimers in part 1

Alex Krycek-Nefarka stood on the rise at the edge of the cluster of Mastabas and watched the workers puzzling over the Pyramid of Sanakht Nebka. The lost pyramid was no longer lost, as far as the world was concerned. The hundreds of Egyptian corpses scattered around the area were already almost forgotten, unable to compare in surprise and wonder to such a find. The explanation most in vogue claimed that a localized earthquake had shaken the bodies free of substandard Mastabas and revealed the entrance to Nebka's tomb.

The Amenti would maintain control of the site for the time being, but it was too high profile to serve as a resurrection site any longer. Unfortunate, but by no means catastrophic. There were other sites, and there would be more mummies. The enemy was still out there, and the Amenti would not rest until balance was restored.

Hearing the crunch of tires in the sand, Alex turned to see the battered, dust covered Audi pull up. "Ibrahim."

"Amenti," the cultist replied as he walked up followed closely by John. He carried himself with a confidence gained from a victory against overwhelming odds. He almost didn't survive the overpowering number of undead that swarmed over him. If the things hadn't fallen, the energy that infused them finally wasted...

Alex shook off the thought. He should be filled with pride and optimism, not pessimism. The Heart of Osiris was safely ensconced in Horus' complex at Edfu. The Eset-a had proven worthy of respect from the other Amenti, even if they still didn't approve of the cult's tactics. Vengeance was realized against James Maxwell for the atrocities he inflicted on Alex and far too many others. The cursed razor blade he used was stored away in the Eset-a safe house, where Alex and Lu Wen would study it to find the best means to destroy it without any unfortunate side effects.

John slipped his arm around Alex's waist, then rested his head against the other man's shoulder. He bore the marks of his battle against Maxwell -- a pale scar ran the length of his face -- but he was still alive, thanks to the healing bandages Alex had wrapped him in.

"What happens now?" Doggett asked.

Alex pulled John closer. "We stand here and watch the find of the decade. We enjoy life without being crushed by fear. We live, instead of merely existing." Alex burst out laughing at Ibrahim's expression. "Are you blushing?"

The Egyptian had, indeed, gone red in the face. After some prodding, he finally admitted, "It will take some time for me to get used to..." He gestured toward the two mummies.

"We belong together, Ibrahim. I won't deny my feelings or hide them away. But we'll try to be discreet so not to embarrass you."

A brief silence followed before the cultist spoke again. "Amenti?"

"Yes, Ibrahim?"

"How do you say 'fuck you' in the language of the ancients?"

* * *

Chaos reigned in this place. Storms of nothingness pounded at remnants of dream, raging across a landscape of insanity and torment. Amidst those winds of madness a spirit was buffeted. The soul was but a speck of distracted thought to the scouring nothing of oblivion, yet it clung to identity with a tenacity that the ghost storm's strongest gale couldn't shake.

In the midst of the ravages of hell, in the depths of the underworld, a lonely soul rallied against the limitless expanse of the beyond. Maxwell tore at the barrier dividing soul from flesh, nightmare from reality. His fingers, curled like claws, found little purchase, what few gouges he made in the wall of the real healing even as they were cut. But Maxwell didn't stop, didn't slow for an instant. His spirit felt no fatigue, for he was fueled with a passion that burned with blinding fury, with the driving need to escape damnation. He wouldn't rest until life, until the physical realm, was his once again.

He would never stop, even if it took an eternity.

The end.


End file.
